


United We Stand

by dizzyDG



Series: Northern Promise [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-05-27 03:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 86,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6267283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzyDG/pseuds/dizzyDG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new alliance seems set to send Robb and Roslin down separate paths as the North falls back into loyal hands, and the threat of winter creeps ever closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'For His Honour'

Robb was quiet as he and Roslin made their way towards the nursery, and thankfully his wife did not speak up to question him on his silence. Already the doubts were creeping in, but what else could he have done? He had no one else to back for the Iron Throne, and he refused to seat it himself. The North was where he belonged, and even that was more than he had ever asked for or wanted. Helping Aegon was the only thing to do. He was kin now, like it or not, and he seemed like a decent man, a man he could trust not to invade him a few years down the line at least. The only trouble was his inexperience, his naivety in certain matters. Robb knew from his own experience that being a king was not easy, especially during war time, and since peace time looked set to coincide with winter, he doubted it would get any better.

He was lucky to have such a strong wife at his side, without her he didn’t think he would have been half as successful in his ventures. Yes, he knew how to win battles, but Roslin had ensured they would more than likely win the war, and she knew how to win hearts. Something which he knew he could not underestimate. He could only hope that Sansa could be almost like the same kind of queen, that she was brave and secure enough to steer Aegon right when he was going wrong. Right now he did not have that faith in his sister, and it was yet another thing that scared him. He had given his word now though, there was no going back from that. The door to the nursery came upon them as he tortured himself over his decision, and Roslin’s hand left his arm so she could move to open it. He followed her in, hoping his little princess could weave her magic and make all his troubles melt away for a few moments.

Grey Wind appeared to have been let in again, sat right next to the cradle with his great head resting against the edge of it. Robb noted that his daughter’s nurses had retreated as far away as possible, and he sent his wolf a pointed look. “Sorry, your Graces,” one of them spoke up, and Robb turned his attention to them again, seeing them both curtsey for him. “He was whining and scratching at the door, we tried to shoo him away, but…”

“Don’t worry,” Robb assured her as she tailed off, “I know well enough what he’s like.” Grey Wind whined softly at the dark look Robb sent him, and he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his wolf, a ghost of a smile twitching at his lips as he moved closer to the cradle. He lay his hand on the small of Roslin’s back as they both peered down at their daughter. Bethany was awake and alert, her blue eyes the exact shade of Robb’s own now, but all her other features were so distinctly Roslin. He wondered if she would inherit Roslin’s will as well, hoping that she would. When the time came he would have to choose a match wisely for her, to make sure she was joined to a man who would respect her the way she ought to be. That was a long way off though, and he refused to think on it any more as Roslin bent down to scoop her up into her arms.

If there was one sight he adored beyond all others, it was seeing his wife cradling their daughter. Roslin had always been sweet and caring, but it seemed to intensify whenever she was in Bethany’s presence, and Robb loved to see the look in her eyes and the clear affection etched across her beautiful features. Grey Wind interrupted his tender thoughts by bumping his head against his hip and whining, looking between him and Roslin mournfully. “What?” it was Roslin who spoke up, eyeing the wolf suspiciously. “Do you suppose I will drop her?” Roslin continued in an amused tone. “And who would catch her? You? With those fangs? I think not.” She shot him a pointed look, and Grey Wind whined pitifully, as though he had understood everything Roslin had just said to him. “Don’t look at me for sympathy,” Robb told him, “you shouldn’t be in here anyway, intimidating the nurses.”

Grey Wind huffed in response, laying himself down on the floor and resting his head down on his paws, his mournful expression not fading. “He may be a pain,” Robb said in an undertone as he stepped closer to Roslin, “but he is the most loyal guard we could appoint to her.” Roslin smiled at that, and Robb moved his hand to rest gently on their daughter’s back. “I agree,” his wife said, “but when you march again, he will not be able to be in two places at once, and I want him with you.” Robb didn’t feel able to broach the subject of their inevitable separation yet, and so he stepped ever closer and pressed his lips firmly to hers for a long moment. At the beginning of their marriage he imagined that it would not have been difficult to be parted from Roslin, but now he loved her with an intensity that still sometimes frightened him, the thought was torturous.

Roslin was more than just a wife to him. More than a warm body to curl himself around at night. More than a queen and mother to his adored princess. She was his closest friend, his closest confidant and advisor. Since his injury she had stepped up and taken control of his kingdoms for him. Since his recovery they made decisions together, even minor ones. The thought of her being hundreds of leagues away from him where he could no longer reach for her to calm his inner anxiety or reassure him that he was doing the right thing was unappealing to say the least. He _needed_ her more than he had ever needed anyone in his life. How was he supposed to cope without her soothing words stopping him from losing his temper? Or her hand resting reassuringly on his knee during council, adding silent pressure here and there that let him know when he had said enough or not?

It was tempting to keep her with him, but it would be beyond selfish. He would be asking her to risk their daughter in the midst of a war, and he could not, _would not,_ do that. The only other alternative would be to leave Bethany behind, and again it was monstrous to even consider it. He would have to cope without his daughter, he would not make Roslin suffer the same thing. Bethany needed at least one of them, and one look at her tiny, perfect, hand clasped around a lock of Roslin’s hair, was enough to ensure that Robb would never even suggest leaving her. He would have to cope somehow. He would have his lords with him, and he would have his wolf. Likely he would soon have a Kingsguard too, since Roslin was determined to get her way and ensure he formed one.

“Do you want her a moment?” her soft tones interrupted his inner thoughts, and he nodded his head at once. “A little more than a moment, if you don’t mind,” he said in an amused tone, and Roslin beamed at him. She moved closer, and between them they eased Bethany into his arms. The baby grunted a little, her fingers flexing as he cradled her against his chest, her fist finally clamping around one of the fastenings of his doublet. He couldn’t look at Roslin as he held their daughter, because he knew what he would see in those eyes he could feel boring into him. It would have to be said eventually, but right now he would not even think on the fact that they would have to be parted far sooner that he would like, and for far longer than he wanted.

* * *

He looked up at the walls as the Stark banners were raised back up, the grey direwolf fluttering in the strong wind that had picked up the night before. The Smalljon had barely been able to sleep as it had whistled through gaps in the window and banged at doors that had been carelessly left open. It hadn’t helped that his blood was still pounding from the victory they had achieved. The Ironborn had been weak, less than a hundred of them left holding the towers. None had surrendered. They had lost fewer than thirty of their own men, thanks in part to the weakened health of their enemy. Attacking at night had also helped, the Smalljon wagered, as he took a long breath. Moat Cailin was back in northern hands again, and soon they would be moving to march on Winterfell to take back their king’s seat. That would likely prove to be a harder fight, but one he was relishing all the same.

A hand clapped his shoulder, and he turned his head to see that his father had arrived. “Word from the King,” his father informed him before he could ask. “He’s going to aid the Targaryen, so we need to move quickly,” he continued, and the Smalljon raised his brows at the news. “We march as soon as the men have packed up, I have already given the order and sent word to the Mormonts,” his father explained, and he nodded, “Maege has rid Deepwood of the treacherous krakens, the Glovers will be grateful of that. Dacey has her men in the wolfswood. We will make for Cerwyn, and then we can come upon Winterfell from three sides. By the Gods,” his father sighed heavily, “I never thought I would live to utter those words.”

“It will be back in true northern hands soon enough, father,” the Smalljon told him, and he nodded. “Aye, lad,” his father agreed, clapping him on the shoulder again. “What are the King’s orders? Do we return south when we have reclaimed the North?” the Smalljon asked, imagining that the answer would be yes. “We are ordered to leave a third of the men behind, and any badly injured,” his father answered, “the King will be sending the queen and his family north once we have it secured. He would see that they are well guarded, and that rebuilding can begin in his absence.”

“Aye,” the Smalljon agreed, “I wonder if the queen would see fit to send some of the Dreadfort’s stone here. Winterfell is not the only seat in need of repairs.” Three towers may well be enough for the settlement to keep any invaders at bay, but the Smalljon was not sure that the Drunkard’s tower would stand for much longer. He was sure that the North would benefit from strengthening Moat Cailin, especially against northern invasion. The Ironborn had shown how weak the fortress was from the north, and with Stannis still milling around somewhere, it would be better safe than sorry. “You can ask it of her yourself,” his father answered him, “the King has asked that you remain to aid her and keep order amongst the men.”

“That is an honour indeed,” the Smalljon said weakly. He supposed he should have known that someone would have to remain behind, especially if the King was sending his entire family back home to the North. The thought that it could be him had never crossed his mind. “Aye,” his father agreed, “high honour, and you know how the King listens to the queen. If you impress her, you may well earn yourself a seat on the King’s council when we finally come to peace time. The King obviously trusts you, lad, make sure you show him his trust is well placed.”

* * *

Jeyne practically skipped down the hallway, bursting through the door of their temporary chambers and smiling even more widely when she saw that Damon was present. “As much as I would love it to be, something tells me that smile is not all for me,” her husband said in an amused tone, and she smoothed her hands down over her stomach in response. “I was right,” she said simply, and he closed the gap between them in two great strides, lifting her effortlessly off her feet. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck and buried her face in the crook of it. His lips were pressed to the top of her head as he lowered her gently back down so her feet found solid stone again. She loosened her grip on him, pulling back to meet his eyes, only to have his lips capture hers at once. Jeyne happily kissed him in return, tears stinging her eyes at the sheer perfection of this moment. This moment that she had been afraid would never happen.

It all seemed so stupid now that her longing was satisfied. “You are going to be the most wonderful mother in this world,” Damon murmured against her lips when he pulled back, and her smile felt as though it would crack her face. “I cannot believe it is finally happening,” she said in wonderment as he pressed his forehead gently against her own. “I love you, Jeyne,” he told her, and her heart swelled. He had never told her that before. Damon always showed her affection, left her in no doubt of how strongly he cared for her, but he had never uttered a declaration of love before. “I love you,” she whispered back to him, and he pressed a firm kiss to her forehead in response. “I should have told you that a long time ago,” he said quietly, and she moved to embrace him more tightly. “Now was perfect,” she told him honestly, and his own arms tightened around her.

“I am even more glad that we will soon be leaving now,” he said, smoothing his hand through her hair, “the sooner word comes that Winterfell is back in loyal hands the better. It is high time you and I had a place to call home.” Tears really did begin to leak from Jeyne’s eyes at his words, and she kept her head against his chest, letting his fingers running through her hair soothe her. A year ago she would have said that this would be impossible. A year ago she was still mourning Robb’s marriage to another woman. Still helplessly in love with a man who could never be hers. Worse, to a man who slipped further away with every passing day with his beautiful new queen. Robb firmly belonged to another, and Jeyne had just about stopped believing that she would ever find happiness of her own when Damon had manifested himself in her life.

She still wasn’t sure why he had wanted her of all people. Why he had been so determined to make her, a spoiled woman with no fortune and a family who despised her, his wife. But he had, and she was more grateful to him that she had ever thought to tell him. He could have taken a better prospect than her easily. He had the queen’s favour, and one word to her would likely have found him a true maiden from a good northern house in service to the King. She pulled her head back from his chest and looked up to meet his eyes. Damon drove her mad on occasion, but she wouldn’t change him for anything. “Thank you,” she told him sincerely, “for everything. You are more than I could ever have asked for, and our child will be lucky indeed to have you as a father.”

* * *

Sansa quickened her pace as she walked down the hallway. Aegon had given her news that Robb’s men had retaken Moat Cailin and would soon be upon Winterfell. That meant they were closer to word coming that it was safe to return to the North. She wasn’t sure how to feel about such a thing. Part of her was glad that she would be returning to her childhood home, and to her family that she had been longing for, for longer than she could remember. The other part of her was terrified. Terrified that her brother, who was only just regaining his strength and prowess with a sword, would have to go out and fight again. And not just him, but Aegon too, her _husband._ The husband she had never wanted. The husband she had married to get home. The husband she had clung too when it all became too much. The husband who held her tightly in his arms when the storms had frightened her. The husband who was patient. Caring. Gentle.

Her pace slowed as she approached their chambers. She had no idea how she was supposed to explain all her feelings to Aegon. All of them sounded mortifying in her head. She had to say something though, she had to let him know that when they were parted that she would miss him. Perhaps that would be enough, perhaps just telling him that she would miss him more than she ever imagined would be just enough. She took a breath and pushed open the door, seeing him stood by the round table in the corner with Jon Connington. They both turned at her entrance, Aegon smiling happily at her, and Connington merely sparing her a glance before turning back to the table. As she moved closer she could see that there was a map of the seven kingdoms spread across it. Markers had been lain, and she cast her eyes over them, blinking a little stupidly when she saw the wolf sat over Casterly Rock.

It still amazed her that Robb had taken such a fortress. That he had taken it to try and force the Lannisters into negotiating her release. She knew that it had not been his only motivation; that his lords making him King had meant he had been trying to gain independence for the North as well. Still, it had partly been for her, and that made her more grateful to him than she could explain. It also made her feel guilty for putting him in this position. She knew that without her marriage to Aegon that Robb would likely have refused him. She knew that Robb wanted nothing more than to leave for Winterfell when the rest of them did, that he was likely dreading being parted from his wife and daughter.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Aegon’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Very well, your Grace,” Connington bobbed his head slightly to Aegon before inclining it to her in a rather grudging manner. She returned the gesture, smiling serenely. She still didn’t trust him, and had confided her suspicions and uneasiness to Roslin. More than anything she needed Roslin to help her ensure that she could be a good queen to Aegon when the time came. Roslin had advised her to be sweet and polite to Connington, especially when Aegon could see it. She advised her to make sure that she had a place in Aegon’s heart, to make sure that he would remember her voice in his mind even when they were parted. Sansa was unsure how to do such a thing, but she did know how to be sweet and kind to Connington, and so she resolved to do just that.

“Alone at last,” Aegon said when the door clicked shut, and Sansa turned her attention to him, seeing him already gazing at her. “What have you done with your evening?” he asked her curiously, and he knew she must be wondering where she had disappeared to after dinner. “After what you said about Moat Cailin, I wanted to speak with Roslin about when we would go to Winterfell,” she told him. It was half true, though she wished she had said something else when she saw the look in his eyes. He almost looked hurt, and it wasn’t hard to imagine what he must be thinking. That he must think that she would be glad to be away from him, even if just for a while. She shook her head on instinct, stepping closer to him and laying her hands on his chest. “I _will_ miss you,” she promised him, meeting his eyes.

Something changed in the violet of them, but before she could work it out he was bending to nudge his nose against hers, nuzzling at her for a moment before capturing her lips. She kissed him back gladly, and when he deepened their kiss she felt her stomach twist in knots. His hands travelled up her back and tangled in her hair, and she let her own wrap around his neck, pressing her body closer to him. If she did not have the words for Aegon, then she could at least try and show him with actions how much she had grown to care for him. The thought of it made her nervous, but when his fingers tentatively began to unlace her dress she did not pull away. As though encouraged, he continued to unlace her, guiding them both towards the bed. Her stomach clenched tighter, though despite her nerves being piqued, she felt more of a sense of apprehension than anything else.

When he pulled the back of her dress open she pulled back from his kiss, gasping for air. His eyes met hers, and she could see the apology in them before he uttered the words. “I’m pushing you, I’m sorry,” he said, but she shook her head. “No, please,” she whispered, “I trust you, I want to be your true wife.” His lips were back on hers the moment she uttered the words, and she allowed her fingers to loosen his doublet as he peeled the material of her dress down her arms. “I cannot bear the thought of hurting you,” he murmured against her lips as he shrugged out of his doublet. “A moment is all,” she whispered back, hoping that it was true, “and only once.” She quietly resolved to mask whatever pain came as best she could, as her dress and shift hit the floor and she felt the light breeze against her naked flesh.

“Are you sure?” Aegon asked her, pulling back to meet his eyes. She nodded her head, holding his eyes as she stepped out of his loose hold and moved to slip into their bed. His chest was rising and falling quickly as he pulled his tunic up and over his head. Sansa couldn’t help but admire the strength of him, the muscles likely built from the years of pulling his weight aboard the _Shy Maid_ , and training for combat. When his hands dropped to his breeches though she had to turn away. Where that was concerned she would rather remain in ignorance for just a little while longer. Her stomach was clenched again, the nerves battling to return. She willed them away, turning her head back to look at Aegon as he slipped between the sheets with her. They had done this on many a night, but never unclothed and bared to one another. She swallowed hard as he inched closer, his hand slipping around her waist and across her stomach as he rolled onto his side.

Sansa knew well enough what came next, and so she slowly spread her legs. He seemed to take her hint, shifting himself until he was nestled above her. His hand came to her thigh, his touch making her shudder, though not in an unpleasant manner. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, before he pressed a light kiss to her collarbone, both his hands slowly roaming her body beneath the sheets. Sansa did not think she had the words to respond, his touch making her hot and aching in places she had never imagined. She let her own hands come to his arms, caressing up and down the hard muscles. He exhaled deeply in response, shifting himself until she could feel his hardness between her legs. His eyes closed for a moment, and almost agonised look on his face. Listening to her body she shifted her legs up so she could wrap them around his waist, and this time his head dropped into the crook of her neck, a groan stifled.

She held her breath as he shifted his hips, closed her eyes and bit down on her lip at the sudden sting. It was not as bad as she had imagined it to be. If anything it was more strange and uncomfortable than painful. He stilled inside her, and she released her lip, keeping her eyes closed as she focused on breathing in time with his warm breaths against her neck. Slowly her body relaxed completely around him, and while it still felt strange to feel him there, there was no longer the hint of pain. As she relaxed he moved, his hips rocking slowly back and forth. Again, it felt strange, a slightly dull ache between her thighs as he moved within her. She shifted her own hips slightly, and it felt almost pleasant. On that discovery she moved in time with him again and again. His pace was still slow, and Sansa was glad of it, the slight throb of pain still not entirely abated.

She allowed her hands to trail up his back and he arched further into her, making her gasp for unknown reasons, her nails pinching slightly into his skin. He groaned, before lifting his head from the crook of her neck and crashing his lips into hers. She kissed him back slowly, focusing on him in her mouth rather than between her thighs. That seemed to make it all a little better, make it blur more around the edges as his fingers twisted themselves in her hair again. His pace quickened slightly in the next moment, and a little noise that sounded almost like frustration left him, before his lips came from hers, his forehead pressing against hers as he gasped out his release. Sansa lay still beneath him, focusing on her own breaths as he panted above her, his eyes slightly unfocused. Eventually he seemed to blink himself back to reality, his eyes finding hers and a slight look of relief shining in them.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he murmured sincerely, and she smiled for him, allowing her hand to reach up and cup his cheek. “It was little more than a scratch,” she told him, “I promise you.” He nuzzled against her palm in response, before he slowly lifted his hips so they were separated again. She felt oddly empty without him now, a slight ache still throbbing between her legs. It was easily ignored when she met Aegon’s eyes again, seeing an almost wonder shining from him. “I’m glad I trusted you,” she whispered, and a smile twitched his lips at once. “So am I,” he said, his tone almost teasing, the lightness enough to make her giggle. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” she said seriously, and he shook his head at once. “Never apologise for that,” he implored her, “I am glad we waited until you were ready, and I am more thrilled than I can say that you trust me as I trust you.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two!!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos on the first one, and the two lovely readers who commented, glad I've got you interested in part two already. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy the update!
> 
> :)

* * *

Olyvar sank down into an armchair, grateful for something truly soft to sit on after all the weeks of riding or being out at sea. He was glad to be behind four walls again with a sturdy roof above his head. Of course it could be argued that he had had that for the short time that they had been at the Wall, but he discounted it on account of how draughty and unwelcoming it had been. Stannis’ presence hadn’t helped things much either, though now he was here warm and safe at Last Hearth he was aching more and more for Dacey. She would be just fine. That’s what he kept telling himself, because she had promised him it would be easy. They would purge Winterfell of traitors soon enough, and then they could be together again. Not just him and Dacey either, but soon enough the entire Stark family, bar the King.

He would see Roslin again, meet his niece for the first time. That brought a smile to his face as he thanked the serving girl who poured him a cup of wine. He turned his head as the sound of the door opening caught his attention, seeing a gruff looking man enter, a small boy trotting in just behind him. “Bran!” the boy exclaimed, and his reaction told Olyvar that he was Rickon. The boy flew towards where Bran had been set down on the sofa opposite him, their arms folding around one another at once as Rickon hauled himself up to join his brother. Olyvar stood, turning away from the sight to give the two of them a little privacy, his attention instead going to the older man who had led him in. “You must be the steward here,” he offered the gruff man a smile, and his hand. “Aye,” the man agreed with him, “and you are?”

“Olyvar Frey,” he introduced himself, and the man finally took his hand. “Kin to the queen?” he enquired as they shook. “Aye,” Olyvar agreed, “her brother.” The man nodded at that, suddenly looking a lot less hostile than he had before. “My lord tells me to keep you in comfort until time comes to take the little Starks boys back to Winterfell,” he said, and Olyvar breathed a sigh of relief. Dacey had said she would send word to the Greatjon about the new arrangements, and it appeared she had done as she had promised. Not that he had ever doubted her. “Thank you, myself and the men are most grateful for your hospitality,” Olyvar said warmly, and the steward offered a thin smile. “Aye, aye,” he said absently, before he turned to leave the room. Olyvar watched him go with a half-smile on his own lips, thinking how the man reminded him somewhat of his father.

He turned back to Bran and Rickon when the steward had left, seeing that they had broken away from their embrace, both of them now looking at him expectantly. “Who are you?” Rickon asked, in that blunt manner that never seemed rude from a child. “Olyvar,” he introduced himself, smiling widely for the young boy. “I don’t know you,” Rickon said, looking to Bran for guidance. “He’s our uncle, Rickon, we can trust him to look after us,” Bran said seriously, and Olyvar was touched at his words. Bran still didn’t speak much, at least not much to anyone besides the Reeds. “We only have one uncle, Uncle Edmure, I don’t understand,” Rickon said, slight frustration seeking into his tones now. “Olyvar is our uncle now, because Robb married his sister,” Bran said, sounding slightly irritated. “Her name is Roslin, and you’ll get to meet her very soon when we are able to travel to Winterfell,” Olyvar said in his kindest tone.

“I want mother,” Rickon said stubbornly, and Olyvar sighed heavily. He could well understand Rickon’s want. He had only been a young boy like him when he had lost his own mother. Roslin had been younger, she did not remember it the way he did. The sudden loss. Asking for her every day and being told that she wasn’t coming back. He hadn’t understood. It had taken him so long to realise that he would never see her again. Feel her embrace. Inhale her comforting scent. He almost shuddered. It wouldn’t be like that for Rickon. He would see his mother again, even if he would have to wait just a little longer for it. “Your mother will come to Winterfell with Roslin, and your sisters,” Olyvar told Rickon, holding his eyes, silently willing the boy to believe him. “Truly?” he asked, and Olyvar could hear the hope mingled with the suspicion.

“Truly,” Olyvar promised him. It would not be long now, he suspected a few weeks at the most before word came that Winterfell was back in loyal hands. After that they would be free to travel there. Likely they would arrive before Roslin and the rest of the King’s family, but at least Bran and Rickon would be back at the home they never should have had to leave. “Where’s Theon?” Rickon asked, and Olyvar wasn’t sure what the right answer to that question was. “We don’t know,” Bran said before Olyvar could speak, and he sent the older boy a grateful smile. “He said he was Lord of Winterfell, but he isn’t, is he? Robb is,” Rickon said firmly, and Olyvar nodded. “Yes, your brother is Lord of Winterfell, and King in the North,” he confirmed.

“Is he coming back too?” Rickon asked, all wide eyed innocence. “Not right away,” Olyvar said slowly, “there are still some matters he must attend to in the south. But I know he will return as soon as he can.” There was clear disappointment on Rickon’s face, and he nodded dully in acceptance. “Robb needs to make sure we’re all safe, that bad things never happen again,” Bran spoke up, his hand finding his little brother’s shoulder. Olyvar smiled slightly at the sight, suddenly aware of how much he was missing his own sister. He had four elder brothers, but he had never been close to them. It was always Roslin, even more so since their mother had gone. She was the only real presence in his life, and had remained that way until he had been taken as the King’s squire. He hadn’t known how to feel when she had been chosen for queen, but now he was glad of it, knowing that she was happy in her marriage. He could only hope she would remain so, given the coming separation.

* * *

Roslin couldn’t help but giggle slightly as Bethany splashed her arms and kicked her legs in her little bathtub. She always had to keep a firm grip on her daughter when she bathed her, given how excited she was prone to be as soon as she touched the water. “Perhaps she will be a natural swimmer like you?” she looked towards where Robb was stood in the window, his stance stiff. “The Gods know, she does not get it from me,” she continued when he showed no sign of responding to her. Bethany let out a delighted gurgle in the next moment, and Roslin moved her eyes back to her, seeing her lips turned up in a wide, gummy smile. “Robb, she’s smiling,” Roslin said at once, and finally it seemed he was snapped out of whatever daze he was in. He crossed from the window, kneeling down at her side and placing his hand on the small of her back as they both looked down on their daughter.

Bethany kicked her legs more furiously on seeing Robb, and Roslin smiled widely, her eyes sliding to look at her husband as their daughter beamed up at them both. The look of wonder in his blue orbs was something to behold, his smile relaxed and easy for the first time in days. Roslin shifted slightly, loath to breath this moment, but aware of the cooling temperature of her baby’s bathwater. “Best we get you out, my darling,” she cooed, “before you catch a chill.” Robb pulled a towel from the rack in front of the fire at her words, and Roslin scooped their daughter from the water, wrapping her up securely in the towel Robb handed to her. “What had you so tense?” she asked her husband as she clutched Bethany to her chest and rubbed the towel gently across her dark head. Robb sighed heavily at her words, shaking his head slightly before he answered her. “If all has gone to plan, they ought to be retaking Winterfell tonight,” he said, and she nodded her understanding.

“They will far outnumber whatever number Bolton’s bastard has,” she said matter-of-factly, “Winterfell will have your banners flying atop the walls again by dawn.” He smiled slightly at that, rising up to his feet before offering her a hand to aid her up to her own. She rose slowly, squeezing his hand lightly before she moved it to rub up and down Bethany’s back. “Likely you’re right,” Robb said as she lay their daughter in the middle of the bed, rubbing the towel across her body to dry her thoroughly. “Aren’t I always?” she responded in a teasing tone, and he chuckled lightly behind her. “Apparently so,” he said in an amused tone. “I know you must hate being so far away from it all, but it cannot be helped,” she told him seriously as she set about putting a towelling cloth on Bethany. “I know,” he sat heavily on the bed next to their daughter, his eyes pulled towards her at once.

“I will take her to the nursery when she is all wrapped up again,” Roslin told him, knowing that he would need her undivided attention tonight. He had been bad enough when the time had come for the Greatjon to take back Moat Cailin. Now that Winterfell was going to be fought for she knew it would be even worse. “Leave her a moment,” Robb responded, “it’s warm enough for her to be free a while, and I want to see that smile again.” Roslin didn’t protest, merely watching as he tickled Bethany’s belly lightly. The baby squirmed, kicking her legs and waving her arms as a gurgle left her, that gummy smile lighting her eyes that were the double of Robb’s. His own delight was evident on his face, and Roslin reached out to lay her hand over the one he had resting on the bed. He turned his head to look at her, and she smiled, squeezing his hand. “Thank you,” he said simply, and she merely nodded as he turned back to Bethany, a little bubble of warmth nestled firmly in her chest.

* * *

The Smalljon fingered the hilt of his sword, concentrating on breathing evenly as they waited. His father was stood at his side, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. The men just behind them were ready with grappling hooks, and the men who would approach from the south gate were ready with the ram. They would be well protected by archers, as would those who would scale the walls and secure the ropes. Those men knew Winterfell like the back of their hand, and with luck would be able to wind their way to the gatehouses, opening the southern ones to them, and the northern ones to the Mormonts. They were still waiting though, waiting to see if the bastard would surrender. A note attached to an arrow had been loosed into the chest of an unsuspecting guard atop the ramparts. The bastard would have seen it by now. He was to surrender Winterfell. His men would be spared if he did, and they would pay their penance by helping in the demolition of the Dreadfort.

Somehow the Smalljon imagined that the bastard would not surrender. They had all heard enough tales of his barbarity and bloodthirstiness to know that he would likely relish such a fight. Even if he could never hope to win, the Smalljon imagined that he would revel in every loyal northern life lost in the fight. The thought made his blood boil. Never had he imagined he would have to be taking back the seat of his liege lord and king from those of northern blood. It wasn’t right. Northmen were supposed to be loyal and honourable above all else. Bolton had failed, and now his bastard son was revealing his own failure to him. “Hour’s almost up,” the Smalljon practically snarled, and his father sighed heavily at his side. “Bastard won’t give up, we’ll have to do this the hard way,” his father said. The Smalljon turned his head to meet his eyes, and they grinned at one another.

“Get ready lads,” his father turned to address the men waiting behind them. Stiff nods greeted his words, and the Smalljon grimaced, knowing that not all the grappling men would live to see Winterfell retaken. “Time’s up,” the Smalljon said quietly a few minutes later. “Get to it,” his father said at once, “and may the Gods be with you.” At his words the men with the grappling hooks moved swiftly towards the western walls of Winterfell. A garrison of archers followed on behind, and the Smalljon itched to follow on after them. That was not the plan though, he had to stand firm at his father’s side until the signal came that the keep was breached. Instead he kept his eyes firmly on the approach of the men, his heart sinking as three were picked off by arrows from above. “Shit,” he cursed as another two swiftly fell. Their own band of archers dropped to their knees, aiming a volley of arrows up at the ramparts. “Get in there and pull back the injured men,” his father ordered someone else, “leave the dead for now.”

It was never easy to utter that command. The Smalljon had had to utter it himself during the taking of Lannisport and the words had stuck in his throat. Bodies would often be stripped and looted by the time they were able to reclaim them. He was hopeful that this would not be the case here, that any men who lost their lives would still have their dignity intact. There were muffled shouts in the distance, flames igniting atop the battlements of Winterfell. “Bastards,” the Smalljon cursed again, “we should never have given them time to prepare themselves.”

“It’s what the King would have ordered,” his father said, and the Smalljon knew he was right. Enough northern blood had been spilled, of course the King would have wanted them to give those men sworn to Ramsay Snow the chance to surrender. To earn their pardon. There would be no pardon now. Any man who raised arms against the King’s men would be put to the sword. They had had once chance, and they had blown it. More arrows flew from the ramparts, and his blood boiled as half a dozen more men were hit. “Call them back,” he murmured to his father, “they are expecting this. Call them back, let us concentrate our efforts on breaking down the gates.”

“Aye, lad,” his father agreed heavily, snapping his fingers to the man with the war horn. One long blast sounded to signal the men to fall back. The Smalljon could see them doing as was bid, some of them aiding their wounded comrades. “Get them to the Maester and then re-join the others, we head for the southern gate,” his father gave his orders, and the men uttered their agreement. “The Mormonts will be coming in from the north by now,” the Smalljon said. “The bastards cannot have the numbers to repel a dual attack on the gates. As soon as one defence is breeched we can flood Winterfell, and then this is as good as over.”

“Aye,” his father agreed again, “no mercy to them that won’t kneel.” The Smalljon agreed readily with that, he was in no mood to show mercy. Not to those who had betrayed the country he loved and the king he served. “No mercy,” he said through gritted teeth, and his father clapped him on the back. With that they were on the move, leading the men around to the southern gate. They would have to march through Winter Town to get to it, the settlement stretching around the southern and eastern walls. Likely it was still mainly abandoned, the real snows hadn’t arrived yet, only when they did would the smallfolk from the villages begin descending on the boarded up town. There were a few wisps of smoke rising up, but he imagined the few inhabitants would be more than content to stay put where they were and not interfere with the army approaching the gates.

“Bring the ram forward,” his father commanded as they halted just out of range of attack from the ramparts. “Shields up, nice and tight,” he continued as the men parted to allow the ram to be brought through. It struck the Smalljon then that Winter Town could be used as an advantage to them, if their archers stuck close to the walls of the houses then they would be much harder to pick off. “Archers advance ahead, stick to the walls and the shadows,” the Smalljon spoke up, and his father voiced his agreement. “Good thinking, lad,” he praised in an undertone as the archers set out to do as they were bid. “Forward with the ram, slow and steady!” his father called out. The men marched in time, shields up around them to protect their heads from falling missiles as they advanced towards the southern gates.

Panicked shouts could be heard from atop the ramparts, bells ringing along the battlements of Winterfell. There were not enough of them, just as the Smalljon had expected, they would have to spread themselves thin to try and halt simultaneous attacks. He could only assume that the Mormonts were at the northern gate, given the increasing panic from atop the walls. _Soon_ , he told himself, his fingertips drumming against the hilt of his sword. “Steady, lads,” his father muttered under his breath, as the first clang of the ram against the gates was accompanied by a cascade of stone coming from the gatehouse above. There were muffled sounds of pain, but for the most part the stones seemed to have been deflected by the shields above them. The Smalljon allowed a breath as the ram was battered against the gates twice more before another load of stone was pelted down on them.

This time two men fell away from the ram, others darting quickly out of the shadows to drag them away and take their place. The hidden archers sent up a volley of arrows as the ram clattered the gates again. This time, the unmistakable sound of yielding metal reached his ears. He recognised the sound all too well, it had been the same at Casterly Rock when they had desperately battered the gates to try and get to the King in time. Their efforts had been wasted in the end, loyal men managing to raise the gates back up to them. They had been close though, and so the Smalljon knew that they were close now to breaching Winterfell. “Come on,” he muttered, clenching his fist around the hilt of his sword as the metal gates groaned and screamed in protest.

A sickening, scraping sound came next, followed by the triumphant sound of the ram hitting wood. “Ready yourselves!” his father called back to the waiting men, and he heard the satisfying sound of a thousand swords being unsheathed. He pulled out his own, his father doing the same thing at his side as the splintering sound of yielding wood reached their ears. “Breached! It’s breached!” The call was that of sheer joy, and it had his father roaring out at his side, commanding the men to flood the inner walls of Winterfell. They seemed to move as one, their steps thundering up the paved road that led to the caved in southern gate. Stones were again thrown from the gatehouse as they passed through, a futile attempt to stop the thousands who would soon be swarming every inch of Winterfell and purging it of traitors.

“Up onto the walls, clear the ramparts and get the northern gates open,” the Smalljon commanded, taking the steps up onto the battements two at a time and ramming his sword through the first man he came upon. “Clear them off! No mercy to those who won’t kneel!” he bellowed as his own men followed him up, repeating his father’s own command. He wondered if any would kneel, if they would fall to their knees and beg forgiveness for their betrayal. None that he came upon did as he led a trail of men round towards the eastern side of the keep, another trail being led around the western walls. His father would deal with those below. That had been decided many weeks ago in one of their endless discussions on how best to take back their capital. As suspected the traitors had been spread thin up here, they came across less than fifty as they made their way along the eastern wall. The flickering flames atop the northern gatehouse were soon upon them, and a dozen men made their way passed him and down the steps as he moved to the walls and looked down.

From the sound of it the Mormonts would soon be through, but there was no harm in giving them a helping hand. “Raise the banners up,” he turned to inform the remaining men, and they moved to do as they were bid at once. He stepped back away from the walls as they hoisted the direwolf back up atop the gatehouse where it belonged. A second was raised, a crowned direwolf on a background of blue, a tribute to the queen that the King was eager for her to be greeted by when she was sent north. The sigils flapped in the light breeze and he couldn’t help but bask in them for a moment, a slight smirk on his face as he stepped back from them. After a moment he heard the clanking of the gate being raised, and he made his own way to the steps, heading down them to be greeted by Dacey passing underneath.

She grinned at him and he clapped her on the back. “What took you so long? Fight’s over,” he said jokingly as cries went up declaring Winterfell reclaimed in the name of the King in the North. “Some bastards left some gates in our way,” Dacey responded in a similar manner, and he chuckled. “Bastards,” he said, and she joined in his laughter a moment. They cut off as she was hit from above, two of her men steadying her as she lost her balance. The Smalljon looked up at once. There was no sign of an ambush, it was likely just a loose stone that had been left by those defending the gatehouse. When he was satisfied there were no traitors above him he looked back towards his friend. “Are you alright?” he asked her, seeing her gingerly touching her head, a small trickle of blood seeking down over her temple. “Fine,” she responded, though her voice sounded weaker than usual. “We Mormonts have thick skulls, thank the Gods.”

He laughed shakily in response, not liking the way she grimaced, nor the way her eyes seemed slightly unfocused. “You should see the Maester, just to be sure,” he encouraged her, and she nodded her head a fraction. “I’ll see him when he has a moment, there will be plenty in more need than me,” she said, her voice sounding stronger now. “At least get a compress,” he nodded towards where she was bleeding. “Aye, I will, don’t fuss,” she said teasingly, pulling away from the men who had been keeping her steady. He watched her uneasily as she wavered slightly on her feet, hearing the unmistakable voice of his father bellowing orders. From what he could make out it sounded like there were prisoners to deal with, men being ordered to go down and make sure the dungeons were secure. The Smalljon could only imagine that some had surrendered and were now clapped in irons. They would remain so until the queen arrived, then they would have to bow down before her and beg forgiveness.

“Do you think they’ll find Greyjoy?” he asked Dacey, offering her his arm as she looked to be wavering slightly again. “Might be Theon is still at the Dreadfort,” she said, her voice almost sounding slightly slurred. “We took the woman at Deepwood though, Asha,” she continued, and the Smalljon nodded his head. “Alive?” he enquired, and Dacey nodded. “Aye,” she confirmed weakly, and he brought them to a halt. “I really think you ought to see the Maester,” he said firmly, and she scowled at him. “By the Gods, you men don’t half fuss,” she protested, “it is just a bump on the head, you are almost as bad as Olyvar, if he -”

No more words left her as he eyes rolled back in her head. “No!” the Smalljon grabbed at her in an instant to stop her collapsing to the floor. She sagged in his arms, her body limp in his hold. “Help!” he bellowed out. “Maester! Maester, now!” Unknown voices agreed with him as he shook Dacey lightly. Her head lolled back, and his eyes were drawn to her neck where he could see no sign of a pulse throbbing. He shook her harder. “Dacey!” he snapped, shaking her almost violently. “Dacey!”


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments, much appreciated as always!
> 
> Hope you enjoy.
> 
> :)

 

* * *

“You alright, lad?” his father’s tones were soft as a heavy hand came to his shoulder. The Smalljon nodded his head, unable to do anything else as he stared blankly at the carved face of the weirwood. “I just can’t believe she’s gone,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. His father sighed heavily before kneeling down beside him, his hand still resting on his shoulder. “How can she be gone?” the Smalljon demanded. “How can a falling stone kill a woman like that?” Again his father sighed, his hand clenching tightly around his shoulder for a moment. “A knock to the head can cause unknown damage inside,” he said gravely, “you remember how the queen was watched over after her knock? We must just be thankful to the Gods that it was quick.”

“Have you written to the King?” the Smalljon asked after a long moment of silence. “Aye,” his father responded heavily. The Smalljon knew that he would not take the news well, Dacey was one of his closest friends, always in the small band he had closest to him in the midst of battle. They both had been, that is how they had all come to be such friends. Gods. He closed his eyes, unable to rid himself of the feeling of her limp weight in his arms. “How is Maege?” the Smalljon asked when he opened his eyes again. “You know Maege,” his father said gruffly, “she has an expression of stone, but inside I know well enough that she has been ripped in two.” He smiled wryly at that, the Mormont women were amongst the fiercest warriors he knew. Maege would not show weakness, at least, not whilst in public.

“She should have worn a helm,” the Smalljon said quietly after another long moment of silence. “Have you ever tried telling a Mormont how to prepare for battle?” his father chuckled slightly. “Last thing you would ever do in this world, lad, you mark my words.” The Smalljon couldn’t help but join in the laughter for a moment, only stopping when the reality seeped back into him. “We’ll raise a flagon or ten to her tonight,” his father said, clapping his shoulder once more. “Aye,” the Smalljon agreed, swallowing hard and nodding determinedly, “definitely ten.”

* * *

Robb sank down into a chair, grief taking over his initial elation as he put his hand up to his head and read the fateful words once more. _It is with a heavy heart that I must inform your Grace that we lost Lady Dacey in the fight. She took a knock to the head, my son was with her and he assures me that she didn’t suffer._ Dacey. He could not quite believe it, his brow furrowing as he read the words one more time to be sure he wasn’t imagining them. Somehow he could not quite fathom how a blow to the head could end her life. She was fierce, she always had been. At the beginning when he had been green she had terrified him. In that first battle she had saved his arse at least three times, from then on he had never wanted her far from him in a fight. Fierce. Loyal. Above all, a friend. A true friend. One of those true friends you could only count on the fingers of one hand. He closed his eyes in despair and tried to swallow down his rising emotion.

 _She will be taken back to Bear Island, Maege is insisting she will return with me to you, your Grace. I bid her reconsider, but you know what Mormonts are like._ Robb almost choked as he remembered the Greatjon’s words on the page. Of course Maege was insisting on coming back and fighting for him. He imagined she would insist on it even if he ordered her to return to Bear Island and see Dacey laid to rest. He let his eyes open as the door opened, Roslin’s welcoming smile falling from her lips as she clearly caught sight of his expression. “What is it?” she asked him fearfully, her eyes darting to the letter in his hand before flickering back to his face. “Winterfell is secure,” he told her dully, and she took several steps closer to him. “But?” she asked him quietly, her eyes wide. “But we lost Dacey,” he said quietly, and Roslin’s already pale cheeks blanched to the extent that they almost turned grey. He rose to his feet at once as she seemed to stagger slightly, her hands coming to clench tightly around his forearms as he moved to steady her.

Her eyes were so wide he thought they would fall from her head, and her reaction was confusing him more than a little bit. He had never assumed her to be close to Dacey, knowing the two of them got along well enough, but knowing also that they had little in common. Roslin seemed almost more distraught at the news than he had been, and he couldn’t help the frown that creased his brow as he pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Roslin,” he murmured against the top of her head, “I would have delivered the news more gently to you if I’d have known you had grown so close to her.”

“I hadn’t,” she choked out, her voice barely more than a whisper. That only served to make his frown sink deeper into his forehead as she clung tightly to him. “Oh, Gods…Olyvar,” she gasped out before he could question her, and several pieces began to slot into place in his mind. “It was Dacey,” he said quietly, understanding his wife’s reaction now. How could he not have worked it out sooner? Of course Olyvar’s secret love was Dacey, why else would he have insisted on going to the Wall? Dacey had saved him during the battle for the Rock, and Robb had lost count of the times he had seen them together after the fact. No wonder Roslin had been evasive about the name of the woman. “Gods,” he breathed out against the top of her head, feeling her body trembling in his embrace. He wondered if anyone would have thought to write to him at Last Hearth, whether anyone would possibly know to write to him with the news.

“Did anyone else know?” he asked, and Roslin finally pulled away from his chest, her eyes shining with un-spilled tears. “I don’t think so,” she said shakily. “You’re not angry with me, are you?” He shook his head automatically. Of course he wasn’t angry with her, he could never be angry when he looked into her eyes. They were the one thing in the world that could always stop him from losing his head. “Of course not,” he voice his assurance, “I wish I’d known, of course I do, but it was not your secret to tell. I understand that.”

“It will have to come from me, won’t it?” she asked him, her bottom lip trembling. Robb knew he could offer to write to her brother for her, but he imagined she would refuse and insist on taking the burden herself. “It might be best,” he agreed with her, and she nodded her head, a hint of determination in her eyes now. She made to leave his arms then, but she turned back almost instantly, her eyes wide as they met his once more. “Arya,” she said simply, and he groaned. He felt guilty for even thinking of it, but Roslin speaking the name of his sister reminded him of their plans. She was betrothed to Olyvar, though it was known between them that the marriage would never take place because Olyvar would break the betrothal by marrying his secret love. By marrying Dacey. He closed his eyes in despair once more, clutching Roslin back to his chest.

“We will think of something else for Arya,” he murmured against the top of her head, determined to soothe her. In truth, he had no idea what he was supposed to do about the situation now. “This is all my fault,” Roslin choked out against his chest, and he ran his hand through her hair soothingly. “Don’t be ridiculous, she would still be betrothed to young Walder if it wasn’t for you,” he insisted, pressing a kiss to her hair. “We’ll fix this, somehow, we will fix this,” he determined, refusing to allow doubt to enter his tone. Roslin had to believe that he believed that something else could be done about it. He would not let her be consumed by guilt. He knew well enough what that felt like, and he would not allow his wife to ever feel such a thing. “It will be alright, Roslin, I promise you,” he murmured, “in the end this will all be alright.”

* * *

Riverrun was swathed in black. A mark of respect to the Mormonts, their sigil raised up behind the high table as Catelyn walked into the dining hall for the evening feast. It reminded her strongly of when her father had been sent to the Gods, her dress the very same one she had worn then. Back then she had imagined she would wear black forever. Recently though she had taken to wearing colours again as real cheer had returned to her life. She still ached for her youngest boys, but knowing they were safe and well behind the walls of Last Hearth under Olyvar’s protection was enough to placate her. Her girls brought her joy each and every day, especially since Robb had pledged himself to Aegon. Since then Sansa had appeared in a constant state of pure happiness, and Catelyn slid her eyes to them now, slight smiles on their faces as they conversed over dinner.

The seating arrangements had had to be changed since the alliance. The two kings and their queens sat in the middle of the high table, and Edmure and Alys were left to take their places next to Robb and Roslin. Catelyn’s place was beside them, with Arya next to her, and a select number of Robb’s lords next to them. They seemed to decide from day to day which of them would sit up at the high table, and which of them would join in with the revelry below. Today the atmosphere was more subdued though, any laughter quiet and scattered. Even the men sat to the right of Aegon and Sansa, who had never known Dacey, were looking suitably morose. She supposed the death of a highborn lady in battle would be enough to sober even those who were most certain of victory. Death’s hands could snatch anyone, regardless of rank. Catelyn knew that well enough, her thoughts drifting to Ned as her eyes landed on Robb. How close she had come to losing him, death’s hands snatching at him but ultimately unable to pull him from the world. Thanks the Gods.

She quickened her pace slightly as she came upon the high table, smiling to Lord Flint and Lord Glover as she passed by them, squeezing her hand against Arya’s shoulder before she slid into her seat between her and Roslin. Arya had taken news of Dacey’s death almost as hard as Robb had. The two had ventured to Riverrun’s Godswood together and not returned for several hours. Roslin was in turmoil of her own, desperate to see her brother, and blaming herself for the situation regarding Arya’s betrothal. Catelyn was sure something else could be resolved when it came to that matter, it was not something she would dwell on now. Now was not the time. She thanked the serving girl who came to pour her wine quietly, taking a sip of it before she turned her head to contemplate her younger daughter.

“You have been absent a lot today, I half expected you to be missing from the feast,” she said softly, and Arya smiled weakly. “I was with Brienne, we went to spar down by the river,” Arya told her, “but she insisted I come to dinner. She says I will be no use with a sword if I don’t keep my strength up.” Catelyn smiled slightly at that. Part of her was still incredibly uncomfortable at the thought of her waif-like daughter sparring with a woman as large as Brienne, but it seemed the pair had an affinity, and Catelyn knew well enough that Brienne would never harm her. It was good for Arya to be able to talk to someone, and she knew that if Brienne were truly concerned about her then she would come and speak to her about it. She had already asked Robb if Brienne could journey to Winterfell with them when the time came to leave, and he had gladly granted his permission. “Well,” Catelyn said to Arya, “likely Brienne is right, you are still too thin for my liking, my girl.”

“I eat plenty,” Arya said indignantly. Likely it was true, but it seemed she never put on any bulk. Probably because of all the time she spent in the tiltyard. Arya had never been able to sit still, even as a child, she would only need to be left alone for a moment to disappear, and would always be found somewhere she ought not to be. Catelyn smiled slightly at the mud-splattered memories, before turning to her dinner. From the corner of her eye she could see Robb and Roslin’s entwined hands resting on the table top. Separation was coming for the pair of them quickly. Robb would not delay now that Winterfell was back under his control. He could not delay even if he wanted to, not when he had made a promise to Aegon. Likely Sansa’s husband was biting his tongue for now, given what had happened with Dacey, but she wagered it would not be long before he started asking questions about when exactly they would march.

Catelyn felt torn over the whole thing. When she had imagined going home she had always imagined that Robb would be the one leading them there. Now they would be led there by Roslin’s Queensguard, and followed on by a thousand men. Walder Frey had grudgingly agreed to give them another five hundred when they passed through the Twins. They would march back once they came upon White Harbour though, the Smalljon was set to meet them there, with another thousand men. Likely it was overcautious, but Robb was taking no chances, and Catelyn knew better than to speak up against his protectiveness. If anything, she was glad of it, she just hoped that her son was not weakening his own army at their expense. She had to remind herself that he still had thousands to join him from the Westerlands when Lord Karstark would come to re-join him, and thousands from the Greatjon’s victories in the North. Robb would have enough, and he seemed of the opinion that many smaller seats would bow down when they discovered Aegon’s existence. Catelyn could only pray that he was right, that this time when he marched out, it would be for the final time.

* * *

It had gone dark around him. He hadn’t thought to light the candles. The only source of brightness came from the moon shining through the window he had not closed the drapes on, and the dying embers of the fire. No one had come to him. He wasn’t expecting them too. When the letter had come he had received it with a smile. Then he had opened it. Recognised Roslin’s hand. Recognised from the first few lines of her neat script that she was bracing him for bad news. Somehow, he had calmly told the squire who had brought him the letter that he wished not to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Not by anyone. So no one had come. Just as he had asked. He had just sat there, staring ahead and seeing nothing. Likely for hours, though somehow it felt as long as days and as short as minutes all at the same time.

Olyvar didn’t think he had ever felt so numb in all his life. Not even when his mother had died had he felt such an emptiness sank deep into his soul. Like something had broken inside him that would never be fixed. His heart continued to beat in his chest, but no longer did it feel. No longer did it beat with the same purpose. Its purpose had been to love her, it had been both a thrill and a terror to discover that. Now he wondered if it might have been best that he had never known it. Best that he had never taken the chance and leant in to press his lips to hers. Better that she had pushed him away, shrugged off his advances and remained untouchable to him. It would have been of little consequence to him then, his concerns for the King’s loss rather than his own. Would that have been better? To never have had her? To never have loved her?

It mattered not either way. He had had her. He had loved her. He loved her still. His heart ached with the ache of loving her, knowing that her smile no longer existed in the world. Knowing that he would never touch her again. Speak to her again. See her again. Never clasp her hands in his before the heart tree and recite the vows that would bind them forever. Never see her grow round with his child, see the softness of her eyes on his through the half-light when they lay entwined in one another’s arms. Roslin had told him it was quick, that she had not suffered, that she had died in the arms of a friend. How Olyvar envied that friend. Envied the Smalljon for hearing her last words, feeling her still warm, seeing the last rise and fall of her chest. Had she thought of him? He longed to believe that she had, that she had spared a moment for him before her last breath left her. Perhaps she had not the time. Roslin had said it was quick, after all. Could he not just be satisfied knowing she had loved him? Could he not just be grateful for their brief period of bliss? It was more than most had.

He closed his eyes and leant his head back, exhaling deeply and trying to remember everything about her. The graceful way she had moved about the tiltyard. The commanding way she had ordered her men, and the way their respect for her shone from their eyes. The way she sent him secret smiles in council when no one was looking. How her hands were remarkably soft despite all the time spent with a sword or bow in them. The way her body twisted above him in the darkness. He swallowed hard, remembering the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her in his mouth. The sound of her even breathing in the darkness when he stayed awake just to watch her in a state of utter peace. Gods he hoped she was at peace now. That she would find eternal peace. That the Gods would take her and let her rest. That her soul was free and unbound. That’s what she deserved. If he could not have her here with him, then that is what she deserved.

His eyes opened again, the numbness finally seeking away as the reality of her loss hit him harder than any weight had ever hit in his life. He slumped forward, head in his hands as the tears finally began to spring from his eyes. His body shook with silent sobs as he tried to pull himself together, tried to remember that it wasn’t all over just because she was gone, even if that was exactly what it felt like. Dacey would want him to pull himself together and get on with it. She would want him to be strong. He knew that, but still he could not stop the consuming grief that sank deep into his very core. His hands tightened in his hair as he scrunched his eyes up to force the tears to stop. He could not surrender to this, he would be lost to the void if he did, and then he would have no hope. It crushed so hard around him and he choked on his emotion, trying to understand how he would never see his beautiful Dacey real and alive before him ever again.

* * *

“You’re quiet tonight,” Aegon said as Sansa brushed her hair through in front of the mirror. She sighed in response, looking up into the mirror and seeing him sat on the end of the bed with his tunic hanging loose. “What is it?” he asked as he met her eyes in the reflection. “Just thinking about Dacey,” she responded, it wasn’t a complete lie, and hopefully it would placate him. “It’s a tragedy,” he said, “I never knew her but many people have spoken most highly of her. I’m sorry, Sansa, I didn’t realise you knew her all that well.” She smiled weakly in response, finally putting down her brush and swivelling around on the stool to face him. “I didn’t, really,” she confessed, looking down at her entwined hands for a moment before she raised them to meet his eyes once more. “Will you be marching soon?” she asked quietly, and he nodded slightly.

“Your brother has decided we ought to gather at Harrenhal. His men from the Westerlands are already making their way from the Rock,” he explained to her, “we will all stay together until we reach Darry, then you will head north, and we will turn south.” He smiled at the end, no doubt to try and reassure her, but she couldn’t help her hands clenching in the silk of her nightdress. She didn’t want to part from him, as much as she wanted to be with her family and be at Winterfell again. Aegon had grown to mean so much to her, and the thought that he may head out to war and never return was weighing heavily on her mind. What would she do then? Where would that leave them? In her mind she tried to tell herself that Aegon would be well protected. He had to be, without him there would be no point in marching upon King’s Landing. Without him she imagined Robb would turn tail and go back to the North without a backwards glance.

“Come to bed,” Aegon said after several minutes of silence, and Sansa rose obediently up from the dresser. She padded to the bed, slipping herself in between the sheets and feeling Aegon slide in behind her in the next moment. He pulled her back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her as she clung tightly to his forearms. “We are going to win this,” he said in a tone so certain that she almost believed him. “Then you will be brought to the Capitol, and we will make it a place of joy, I promise you,” he implored her, and she closed her eyes, desperate to trust every word that came from his mouth. “I don’t think I can lose anything else, Aegon,” she finally spoke up, and if possible he held her even more tightly. “You won’t,” he said fiercely, “your brother and I are getting a Kingsguard each, remember?” He was trying to keep his tone jovial, she could tell, but she could also hear the underlying shake to his voice.

Aegon was green, just as Robb had once been green. Sansa could only hope that her husband would fare as well as her brother when it came time to fight. “Would you promise me something?” she asked him as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I will promise you anything within my power,” he responded at once, and she took a deep breath. “Don’t put yourself in any unnecessary danger,” she urged him softly, “I know you want to prove yourself. That you want to show them you are a king capable of fighting and winning. But, please, I’m begging you, Aegon, do not do anything foolish when staying safe is possible. I want to come back to you.” He pressed another kiss to the top of her head at that, and she could feel him exhaling deeply against her. “I promise,” he finally breathed, and she felt her body relax. “I promise, Sansa.”


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little late!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy it, and thank you so much for the kudos!
> 
> :)
> 
> *also, new POV this chapter, hope you like*

* * *

Roslin opened her eyes at the sound of shouting and movement in the courtyard below, a shuddering breath leaving her as she saw the faint light sneaking through the gap in the drapes. Robb’s arms tightened around her waist, so she knew without looking that he too was awake. “When do we leave?” she asked him groggily, and his lips found the top of her head in response. “When we’re ready,” he replied, and she decided against pushing him on it. She knew without asking that Robb was dreading giving the order to march out from Riverrun. He believed he was doing the right thing backing Aegon, spending more time with the man had convinced him of that. What he really didn’t want to do was reach Darry and have them go their separate ways. Roslin dreaded it too. She wanted to be with him always, at his side and in his presence as was meant to be. She flexed her fingers into the muscles of his chest and he inhaled sharply before gently rolling them so he was laying above her.

She almost shuddered at the look in his eyes, allowing her hands to slowly roam up his arms to rest on his shoulders. Robb remained still above her as she did so, only leaning into her when her hands had reached their destination. She didn’t even need to think when he kissed her anymore, she was just so instinctively aware of how their lips were supposed to work together. So bonded with him that she knew what he was thinking from a single look better than others knew from an explicit order from his mouth. His beautiful mouth that trailed from hers and down her neck, lavishing her with attention that she had been craving from him for what felt like an eternity. She couldn’t help but arch her back, pressing her hands down against his shoulder blades to encourage him closer to her. He seemed to take the hint, pressing his body firmly between her legs, his rough hands moving to slide her nightdress up her legs.

Again she shuddered beneath him, the anticipation almost painful. Robb pulled away slightly, his eyes meeting hers, concern now mingling with the lust. “Is it still too soon?” he asked her, and she shook her head at once. She was well recovered from Bethany’s birth now, and more than ready to let her husband complete her once more. “No,” she promised him, holding his eyes. The lust drowned out the concern at once, and his lips came back to hers, his hands bunching her nightdress up and around her waist. She slipped her own hands down from his shoulders, somehow getting them between their meshed bodies so she could unlace him. His groan of appreciation was swallowed up by their kiss as she found him uncovered. A thrill shot right through her, and her stomach leapt with anticipation as she slowly wrapped her legs high up on his waist and shifted her hips until he was pressed right up against her.

He pulled his lips from hers again and she panted beneath him as he looked down on her, his eyes all for her as he shifted himself to make them one again. To make them whole. She exhaled deeply in satisfaction as he sank down into her, the look on his own face was that of almost relief, and she wrapped her hands around his upper arms as he began to rock his hips. Roslin moved her own up to meet his pace, her eyes still holding his as he kept up his torturously slow pace. It would be easy for them to lose themselves in this, in the bliss that they had been so long without, but she preferred it like this. She preferred the fact that they were savouring it, and pushed to the back of her mind the fact that they would have precious little time to savour it before they parted. Right now she just wanted to think about her tightening stomach, and the heat that was building between her and the man she loved more than she had ever thought possible.

Robb pressed down closer to her, his hands roaming up and down her thighs for a moment, encouraging them higher, before he moved them to her shoulders to slip down the straps of her nightdress. His gentle touch soon found her breasts, and she tilted her head back, unable to halt the soft moan that came from her. They were still so tender, and on occasion almost painful, since Bethany had been born, but Robb’s touch was so gentle that it only served to heighten her pleasure. It was building up deliciously in her lower stomach, her thighs beginning to twitch slightly as Robb occupied his lips with her neck, one of his hands still lavishing her breast with attention as her own ran firmly down his back. He arched further into her, and she couldn’t help but gasp out as he touched something magical. Her anticipation was piqued now, and it was all she could do to keep rocking her hips in time with his as she was blinded by the ever increasing pleasure he was bringing to her.

Robb’s own breaths were sharp against her neck, mingling with her owns gasps and noises of pleasure as he pushed her even closer to that weightlessness she craved. It was one more moment, one more agonising moment before it all collapsed down around her, her whole body quaking as he continued to move. Somehow her lips formed his name, and his own pressed firmly against her neck before she felt the warmth of his own peak deep inside her. His body collapsed down against her own, and she held him there firmly, her head still spinning as she ran her hand through his curls. He turned his head slightly, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to her shoulder before he raised his head to meet her eyes once more. She could see a thousand words dancing in those blue orbs, but the ones he uttered were the only ones she wanted to hear in this moment. “I love you,” he said them quietly, but with an underlying ferocity that had her clutching at his arm to keep him close. “I love you,” she returned, “and in this moment, nothing else matters.”

* * *

“The boys are saddled, ought we to get going, milord?” Olyvar turned to see the wildling woman, Osha, looking at him expectantly. He allowed her a brief nod of the head before turning back and marching abruptly to his own mount. That had probably been rude. Roslin would probably have chastised him. She wasn’t here though, so he did not have to pretend to be noble and polite. Right now he didn’t want people around him, and he knew the best way of keeping them at bay was to make sure they didn’t want to speak to him in the first place. He imagined they would have pieced together enough to realise that the letter he had received was the reason for his sudden change in mood. What he didn’t know is if they would make the connection between that and their own news from the King about Dacey. Nor did he care right now. Right now he didn’t care for much at all.

He marched to his own horse and hauled himself atop it, nodding curtly to the head guard, who promptly called back the order to move. Olyvar dug his heels lightly into the sides of his horse and stared straight ahead as they trickled slowly out of the gates of Last Hearth. After several minutes of riding he sensed that someone had ridden their own horse closer to him, and he gritted his teeth. They said nothing though, and eventually nagging curiosity got the better of him and he turned to see Bran on his specially saddled horse. “Sorry,” he said quietly, “I won’t speak to you if you’d prefer.”

Bran’s words made him feel guilty. He knew he had been neglecting the duty that Dacey herself had sent him to do, but it was too hard to continue being the jovial new uncle when his heart felt as though it had been pierced with a thousand white hot knives. Even smiling felt like some sort of betrayal, even though he knew deep down that Dacey would never begrudge him happiness. It felt too soon. She would not even have been laid to rest yet. The journey to Bear Island was long, though he knew those escorting her would try and make it as swift as they possibly could. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to imagine the procession in his mind. It was best that he didn’t think of her cold and missing, but remember her as she had been; beautiful and warm and alive.

“Sorry,” he muttered his apology to Bran, finally remembering that he hadn’t spoken up to say anything in return. “You loved her, didn’t you?” Bran’s words were quiet, and though he asked the question, Olyvar could tell that he already knew the answer. “I did,” Olyvar agreed, “but our love was secret, and so must be my grief.”

“We’ll be at Winterfell soon enough, then you will have your sister,” Bran continued quietly, and Olyvar could only nod his head. Yes, Bran was right, he would have Roslin, and he would have in her someone who could perhaps truly understand some of what he was feeling inside. But he would also be at the place where he had been supposed to marry Dacey, where they were supposed to have settled until such a time she became Lady of Bear Island. The place she had fought for, and ultimately lost her life for. Olyvar wasn’t sure how he would feel once the time came for them to pass under the gates, but it wasn’t hard to imagine that it wouldn’t be easy.

“I’m sorry,” he said again to Bran, “I came here to take care of you and Rickon, I don’t think I have been doing a very good job recently.” Somehow he managed a faint smile, and Bran returned it, nodding his head in understanding. “I told Rickon you were missing your family, that is something he can understand,” Bran told him, and he nodded gratefully. “Thank you,” he managed, and again, Bran nodded his head. After that they lapsed into silence, and Olyvar was glad of it. Even just speaking those few words had made his voice almost tremble. The Gods only knew how he would ever be of any use to Roslin at Winterfell.

* * *

Robb tried very hard not to stamp his way across the courtyard. He did his best to remember that he was supposed to act the dignified, unruffled king, and not the frustrated man who wished with every fibre of his being that he did not have to do this. After everything he and his men had fought for and achieved he had hoped that by now all of them could go him. Instead, only some of them were, only some of them would turn north at Darry, taking his family with them while he remained behind. He had never been alone before. Not truly. Even at the start of the war when his mother had been absent he had had Theon. His fists clenched as ever they did whenever he thought of the treacherous bastard he had called brother.

Determined to think of something else, he quickened his pace, moving towards the waiting carriage that his wife and daughter would be travelling in. Arya had stubbornly insisted on riding, and after he gave her permission his mother had said she would do the same. As he moved closer a frown came to his brow as he saw Roslin fussing over Bethany’s blankets before she passed her to one of her nurses. The three nurses then clambered up into the carriage, and Roslin seemed to hesitate before she stepped back, nodding to the guards on either side to close the door behind them. Robb reached her, his hand coming to her shoulder as the door clicked shut. “What are you doing?” he asked her when she turned to face him. “I’m riding with you,” she told him, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“But, Bethany…” he began, trailing off as Roslin took his hand in hers and squeezed tightly. “Bethany will have us both when we stop for the night,” she told him firmly, “I will ride at your side, Robb, as your queen.” He was touched by her words, but the frown was still creasing his brow. Roslin never went for more than a few hours without seeing their daughter, and he didn’t want her to start now. “Roslin, I appreciate your offer, truly I do, but would you not rather be with her?” he pressed, and she stared up at him for a long moment.

“I have _never_ been without you,” she finally spoke, “I thought I never would be. Now I will part with you sooner than I would like, for even longer than I would like. Just, please, let me be at your side while I still can.” If she was going to say anymore, Robb would never know, because he pulled her against him and kissed her full on the mouth, not caring who could see or what they would say. He loved his wife. His queen. He loved her with everything he had and he didn’t care who knew it. Her hands clenched around his upper arms as they kissed, and he kept his own planted firmly on her waist, holding her as tightly to him as he could. Finally, when he could take no more, he pulled back from her, but only an inch. “You, and Bethany,” he told her lowly; “you are everything to me, you understand? _Everything._ If I did not have you both, my life would cease to be worth living.”

“Robb…” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears as she looked up at him, her head shaking ever so slightly. “So long as I know you are both safe in this world, I will have purpose, and I _will_ come home to you. I swear it now,” he promised her, and she pressed herself back to him, her arms wrapping around his waist as she rested her head on his chest. He exhaled deeply, running his hands through her hair and memorizing everything about how she felt in his arms. Four days he had left to savour her, and wonder over their perfect daughter. Somehow that would have to be enough to sustain him in the months to come. He pressed his lips to the top of Roslin’s head, her soft hair tickling at him and giving him something else to remember.

He knew they ought to go, he could hear horses growing restless in the courtyard. Vaguely he wondered if any of the men would dare interrupt them in this moment. Part of him hoped they would, because if no one spoke up then he would likely end up standing here forever with Roslin wrapped in his arms where she belonged. Usually Roslin herself would pull herself from him and tell him they ought to leave, but she showed no sign of movement, her arms still tight around his waist. He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and closed his eyes to the rest of the world, telling himself that it would just be for a few more moments.

A hand touched his shoulder a minute later, and he opened his eyes to meet Aegon’s violet gaze. He inclined his head over towards the horses, the look in his own eyes almost regretful. Robb lifted his head from Roslin’s, and nodded ever so slightly. Aegon touched his shoulder again, squeezing lightly this time, before he let go and made his own way to the horses. “Come, then,” Robb tried to keep his tone light as he loosened his hold on his wife. “If you are insisting on riding with me, then we’d best make sure your horse is saddled and ready.”

“It is,” Roslin told him, taking his arm as they made their way toward where the family and their guards were already mounted. “I made sure of it,” she elaborated, and he couldn’t help but chuckle lightly. He didn’t know why he was surprised, if Roslin wanted something then she made sure to get it, and that was one of many reasons why he knew the North would be in safe hands in his absence. They reached her horse, and he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her up atop it. In that moment he was taken back almost a year, to their departure for the Westerlands. How different things had been then. He met Roslin’s eyes as she settled herself on her horse, and he had the strangest feeling that she was thinking the same thing. A tiny smile graced his lips, and her own twitched up at the corners, and he just knew she had been.

* * *

“Where is the queen?” Aegon turned at the stiff question, taking a sip of wine before he answered Connington’s question. “Having dinner with her mother and sister,” he answered him, and Jon nodded slightly before moving further into Aegon’s tent. “Three days till Darry if we make good speed, though if we have to stop for the Stark babe again -”

“She is a babe at the breast who wanted her mother,” Aegon cut him off with a frown, “we lost five minutes while the Stark queen tended her daughter. It was hardly a long delay.” Somehow he resisted rolling his eyes at his guardian. Jon seemed determined not to warm to the Starks, and Aegon had the niggling feeling in his stomach that he had not yet given up on the idea of taking control of all the kingdoms once more. “And what of your own queen?” Jon raised a brow. “Does she show any sign yet of being with child?”

“That is rather personal,” Aegon said tersely, but the older man seemed unabashed. “You name yourself king, Aegon, you need a queen who can provide you an heir,” he said insistently, taking more steps towards him. “We have time,” Aegon said calmly, “there are more pressing matters to attend upon for the time being.”

“You have three days, then you will be parted from the girl for many moons, if she is not already with child, Aegon, then you may consider releasing her from your union once Stark helps you onto your throne,” Jon said, and Aegon’s hand clenched tightly around his cup in response. “What did you just say?” his voice was barely more than a whisper. He could not believe what his guardian and closest advisor had just suggested. “Cast her aside after using her brother’s armies to win my throne?” Aegon demanded. “I hope that was a jape, Connington, one made in poor taste, I hasten to add.”

“She’s weak, can you not see it? The people need a strong queen, and you could have one, we only need reach out to your aunt –”

“Enough!” Aegon snapped before Jon could say another word. “I will not hear of it,” he elaborated, “ _you_ encouraged me to give up on Daenerys and set my sights on Sansa Stark instead. And now you have changed your mind? Well, so have I. I may have been reluctant to agree with your plans before, but I did so at your insistence and Varys’ assurances. I married Sansa, and I will remain married to her, and _only_ her, before you even suggest following the traditions of my forefathers.”

“Think clearly, Aegon!” Jon hissed at him, coming closer and placing his hands on his upper arms. “When her dragons grow big enough she will make the journey to Westeros! Better she come as a friend, rather than a foe. Offer her a throne and a crown. That is the best thing you can do for the people of Westeros. There will never be peace so long as she is allowed to reign free in the east with those beasts growing larger every day. She will challenge you, Aegon, unless you eliminate the threat. The best way to do that is through marriage, she would have to agree, to secure the Targaryen dynasty.”

“The children I have with Sansa will secure the Targaryen dynasty,” Aegon snarled, shrugging himself out of Jon’s grip. “Daenerys will be offered Dragonstone if she decides to fly across the Narrow Sea,” he continued, “and if she agrees to peace then I will name her my heir should I die without issue, as _we_ agreed.”

“You are letting your lust for this girl cloud your judgement, don’t be such a fool, Aegon,” Jon hissed at him, again snatching at his upper arms, though Aegon again shrugged him away. “You know nothing of my marriage, and you will speak of my wife with respect,” he said through gritted teeth, “Sansa is your queen, and you will address her as such.”

“Dragons! Aegon!” Jon sounded almost desperate now. “You could unite the whole of Westeros again, just as Aegon the Conqueror did all those years ago. You would be remembered forever as he was, not forgotten in history as the Targaryen who lost two Kingdoms and relied on wolves to win his battles for him.”

“Those wolves are our only chance of winning the Iron Throne, and they are kin to me, the only kin I have in this world. You will _not_ speak ill of them in my presence,” Aegon’s tone was almost threatening now. “I cannot believe you would suggest such a betrayal. You would ask me to cast aside my wife for Daenerys, and then use her dragons to force Robb Stark to bend the knee to me, after all he has promised? Have you no sense of loyalty?!”

"Loyalty may win you friends, but it will not win you respect, and it will not help you keep the Iron Throne,” Jon said with a quiet finality that only served to make Aegon’s blood pound in his ears. “You think the Northmen do not respect their King?” Aegon asked just as quietly. “I did not say that,” Jon answered, “but you will not be ruling over loyal northerners, you will be ruling over lords who are ruthless and power-hungry, and willing to do almost anything to ensure they will get the best deal. And if that deal is not you, they will overthrow you the way they did your grandfather. Don’t be weak, Aegon, they will see it a mile off and you will be dead within a year.”

“Get out,” Aegon said dangerously quietly. “Out,” he repeated, when Connington showed no sign of leaving. “And do not come before me again until you have learned to respect your king. I am no longer a boy who needs your guidance, I am man enough to choose my own council, and live by my own morals. If that leads to my death, then so be it, at least I will have lived my life with some shred of decency and honour. I wonder, Ser, if you will be able to say the same when death comes calling your name?”

 

 

 


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter for you folks. Hope you enjoy it, and thank you so much for the kudos and comment so far! 
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Aegon had been quiet on the journey to Darry. Restless. Irritable. Sansa had worried she had done something wrong, but she had held her tongue until the night before they were due to part ways. When she had asked him, he had stared at her for such a long time, and with such intensity, that she had felt herself almost burning under his gaze. Eventually he had blinked, shaken his head, and taken her hand. After that it had all become a pleasurable blur. Whatever had been affecting his mood, she was certain after that that it had nothing at all to do with her. It still made her want to blush when she remembered the things he had done to her body, each one of them seemingly making her more wanton than the last. She had been faintly surprised when she had woken in the morning to find that she could actually still walk properly, given the way he had made her legs tremble the night before.

His tension had returned though, as they had sat and broken their fast. She wondered if it was just thinking of them being parted for so long. It was playing on her own mind, niggling away at the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to be away from him for so long, but everyone around them seemed to think it was best that she was away from the fighting, and that knowledge of their marriage was kept secret for as long as possible. Sansa didn’t see the point, but Aegon had grudgingly agreed to Robb’s feelings on the matter, and so she kept her mouth shut like a good wife, and prepared herself for the journey north. She wondered what it would be like seeing Winterfell again, knowing that it had sustained damage during the Ironborn invasion. Gods. There had been times when she had thought she would never see her childhood home again. Even if it was stood in ruins, she already knew that she would be overwhelmed at the beautiful sight.

“Are you set?” Aegon’s voice pulled her from thoughts of home, and she lifted her head to meet his eyes. The tension between them was palpable, and she swallowed hard before nodding her head. He sighed heavily at that, and she almost cringed away from him at the look on his face. Before she could say or do anything though he was up on his feet and offering her his hand. She took it, rising to her own feet and immediately being pulled into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against the top of her head, “I know what I have been like these past days, but it isn’t you, I swear.”

“I don’t _want_ to go,” she told him thickly, burying her head in his chest and feeling him pull her even closer against him. “And I don’t want you to,” he returned, “but your brother is right. A war is no place for you, I want you to be safe and away from harm, even if it means missing you.”

“I’m such a fool,” he continued after a moment, “I ought to have savoured these last few days with you, but instead I have been distant and irritable. I’m sorry, Sansa. I truly am.”

“I don’t know what has got you like this,” she pulled back so she could look up and meet his eyes, “and I would not make you tell me if you don’t want to. Just promise me you are not having any doubts about us or this war. Because if you are, you need to stop this now. You don’t have to do any of this. We could just go, we could just go right now and just _be._ ”

“Is that what you want?” he asked her, his eyes boring into hers. She shrugged her shoulders in response. “I want a happy future with my husband,” she told him simply, and he sighed heavily again before pressing his lips to her forehead. “They will know by now,” he said, “at the Capitol, I mean. I’m not invisible anymore, Sansa. Not a dead man. Whether I like it or not, they will come for me, to eliminate the threat if nothing else. I _have_ to fight this. I have no choice anymore.”

“Then you fight,” she said, meeting his eyes and holding them fast, “and you win.”

* * *

Roslin folded the parchment up carefully, slipping it beneath her cloak just as the flap of the tent pulled aside to reveal Robb. His jaw was set and his eyes tight, and Roslin swallowed down the lump in her throat on seeing him. Already she knew that this would be harder than she had prepared for. He met her eyes for a brief moment before he moved to the bed and scooped Bethany up from where she had been lying in the middle of it. “Everything is packed and loaded,” he told her, not looking in her direction as he clutched their daughter closer to his chest. The sight was almost enough to break Roslin, and she took a deep, steadying breath before she dared answer him.

“I imagine they will want to leave soon, if we are to be at the first inn by nightfall,” she finally said, and he nodded stiffly. This was too much already. She was not even away from him yet and already she felt like a weak and helpless little girl again. Taking another steadying breath she tried to remind herself that she was a grown woman, and that she was strong. Strong because Robb had allowed her to be strong, had encouraged her to be strong. He trusted her to be strong for their family and their home. She needed to show him that that trust was well placed, and she forced her lips to tilt upwards into a smile as he turned to her.

“I have a thousand things to say,” he said quietly, “but I’m not sure any of them will come.” She nodded her understanding at that, taking a few steps closer to him until she could rest her hand on the back of the one holding their daughter to him. “You don’t need to say anything,” she told him, meeting his beautiful eyes, “I already know, Robb.”

He nodded vigorously at that, and she knew he was swallowing down his emotion, just as she was. “Will you -,” he started, cutting off and taking a shuddering breath. “Will you talk to her about me?” he asked, his tone almost shy. Roslin was nodding at once, her hand clenching around his. “Of course I will,” she told him firmly, “I will talk to her about you every single day, I promise you, Robb. Our daughter will know you. She already does. She is such a clever little thing.”

“I cannot bear this,” he closed his eyes despairingly and she had to blink back tears furiously. “I know,” she could do nothing but agree, “but you have to believe that it will be over soon. You _have_ to, and once it is that is it. You can come home, and we will be waiting for you, and we will never be parted for so long again. We have so much to look forward to, Robb. This is it. One more march and we can just enjoy the rest of our lives.” He opened his eyes at that, and though they were shining he nodded his head determinedly. “One more time,” he said fiercely, and she met his eyes, nodding her agreement.

Before either of them could say anything else Catelyn’s tentative voice came from outside the tent, and Robb called for her to come in. “I can take her now, if you’re ready?” his mother looked towards Robb as soon as she entered. For a moment Roslin thought he would refuse, his grip clearly tightening on their precious baby girl. After a moment though he nodded, and Roslin met Catelyn’s eyes for a moment, seeing the sympathy shining in them. “Just a moment,” Robb said, and his mother nodded her understanding.

“You know,” Catelyn started quietly, “your father was distraught at missing the first months of your life. He was certain that you would know, that he would be punished for it for the rest of his life. But within a few weeks it was as though you had never been apart, as though he had been there for every moment of your life. Bethany will not remember this time apart, Robb, just as you don’t remember your father not being there. I know it will hurt you now, but once you come home it can all be forgotten, I promise you that.”

“Thank you, mother,” Robb said thickly, holding her eyes for a few moments before he bent his head to press his lips to the top of Bethany’s. “I love you, my little princess,” he murmured against her. His voice so full of adoration that Roslin’s eyes welled with tears at once. “Be good for your mother,” Robb continued, “and don’t listen to all her stories of me, I am not all bad.”

Roslin let out a choked little laugh at that, as did Catelyn, her lips quivering as they quirked up into a smile. “You’d best take her now, mother,” Robb moved towards her, “Roslin and I will be there in a moment.”

“You take your time,” Catelyn said reassuringly, easing Bethany out of his arms. Robb looked so lost without her, his eyes following his mother’s progress from the tent. Only when the flap fell into place behind them did he turn his attention to Roslin. At once they both seemed to move, meeting in an embrace so tight that Roslin could barely breathe. His lips pressed firmly against the top of her head for a long moment before he pulled back slightly so he could look down and meet her eyes.

“I love you,” he said, “and I trust you. I trust you to do whatever is right for us. The North is yours to command until I can come home. Winterfell is yours to rebuild. I -,” he paused to draw breath, and she held her own. “I could not think of anyone better to take care of our family,” he finally continued, “trust the Smalljon, do not do it all yourself, and make sure to tell Olyvar that I am not angry with him. Look after him, I have a feeling he will need it. I know I would if I…” he tailed off, shaking his head, “I will not ever think of that,” he finished firmly.

“And nor will I,” Roslin’s grip on the top of his arms increased for a moment. “I will make sure Winterfell is your home again, before you get back.” He nodded at that, gratitude shining in his eyes at her words. “I know you will,” he smiled, “can I ask one more thing of you?”

“You can ask whatever you would of me,” she responded at once, and he bent his head down to brush his lips with hers lightly before he made his request. “Have Bethany named before the heart tree,” he   murmured, “I would not have her without protection from the Gods any longer than she has to be.” Roslin nodded at that. She knew he would love to be there to lay his daughter before the Gods and ask their blessing, but she understood why he would not want it delayed. “Who?” she asked him simply, and his brow creased in thought for a moment. Someone would have to lay Bethany before the Gods in his place, and she imagined he would prefer it to be a Northman.

“Jon,” he finally said, “if he is given leave to come from the Wall. Rickon is too young, and Bran cannot. I would have Jon do it if he can. But do not delay too long if he doesn’t come, I would trust the Smalljon with her, if needs must.”

“It will be done,” she soothed him, rubbing her hands up and down his upper arms, “I promise you.” At that he gathered her back up into a tight embrace and she clung to him, squeezing her eyes tight shut and remembering everything about him. “I love you so much,” she whispered against his chest, and he squeezed her even tighter for a moment. “I’ll be home soon,” he said fiercely, and she nodded against him, refusing to believe anything else. “I know you will,” she agreed firmly, and he kissed the top of her head again.

After what seemed like an age he finally pulled away, and Roslin had to resist the urge to pull him back to her. “If I do not see you to the carriage now, I will never let you go,” he told her, and she swallowed back the tears that were welling in her eyes once more. “I don’t want you to let me go,” she confessed, “but it would be selfish to stay. Our daughter needs to be kept safe.”

“Yes,” he agreed with her at once, before crashing his lips against hers. She kissed him back, the tears finally leaking from her eyes as she did so, mingling with those that had begun to fall from his own eyes. Too soon she had to pull away, her breath deserting her. His shining eyes met hers and she knew that this was it. He inclined his head and she swallowed hard before reaching into her cloak to pull out the folded parchment. Robb frowned slightly as she took his hand and pressed it into his palm. “Not now,” she said simply, meeting his eyes, “wait until we are away.”

* * *

It was quiet in the heart of camp. With the departure of the two queens and their family everything seemed just that little less jovial. Aegon wasn’t exactly sure whether or not he should approach Robb, who was sat staring into the fire. The man looked lost in his own thoughts, and his eyes looked more than a little rimmed with red. Not that he thought him weak for showing his emotion. All his family would be together again soon, and yet he would not be there to see it because he had agreed to help Aegon fight for his throne. He would be apart from his baby daughter for months, and likely she would have doubled in size by the time he set eyes on her again. Aegon sighed heavily, never had he felt more guilt than he had done in this moment over asking Robb to fight with him.

In the end he couldn’t stand it, hovering by his tent and just looking over at his brooding good-brother. Sansa had specifically asked him to keep an eye on Robb, and do his best to keep his spirits lifted over the next days while he adjusted to the separation. Besides, he himself could use someone to talk to, now Sansa was gone he was feeling more alone than ever. Connington had still not come to apologise, and Aegon was refusing to give in and speak to him first. Just remembering the vile words he had spoken about his wife strengthened his resolve in that matter. So, tentatively, he moved from where he was stood and approached the fire slowly.

Robb didn’t look up until he was mere feet away, and Aegon was pleased to note that no anger flashed in his eyes at the sight of him. “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the fire. Robb shrugged in response. “Do as you please,” Robb said, “we are equals here, after all.” Aegon did as he was told, settling himself down next to the darker man and wondering what on earth he was supposed to say now. “Have you any word from your men?” he finally asked, thinking he might appreciate speaking about anything other than family.

“Lord Karstark will likely reach Harrenhal before we do,” Robb answered him, “but we will likely be waiting a week there for the Greatjon and the Mormonts to join us.” Aegon nodded his head at that, knowing that both the coming forces would add around another eight thousand men to those they already had assembled. “Connington said he would reach out to known Targaryen sympathizers,” Robb spoke again, “has he had word yet?”

“I don’t know,” Aegon said honestly, and his good-brother frowned. Suddenly Aegon became very interested in the dancing fire, but he could still feel Robb’s eyes boring into him. “Has something happened?” he finally asked, and Aegon shifted uncomfortably before he answered him. “He spoke out of turn,” Aegon said vaguely, hoping that Robb would leave it at that. “He must have done,” Robb said, “very much so, I would wager, since I have not seen you in his company for the last few days. My lords constantly speak out of turn, it’s in their nature, but perhaps these words are not something you can so easily shrug off?”

Aegon snorted at that. Sansa had neglected to tell him how astute her brother was, and he himself had never sensed it. “He doesn’t like you for anything more than the men you have brought me,” Aegon finally said, deciding to be honest. He chanced a glance to the side, and saw Robb’s brows raised, and a slight smile playing about his lips. “I would never have guessed,” he said in an amused tone, and Aegon snorted again.

“I suppose he has plans to reclaim the two kingdoms I have _stolen_ from you,” Robb continued, and Aegon nodded his head. “I would never,” he assured his good-brother, “I think the North would crush me if I even tried, and I’m not sure I would fare much better in the Riverlands either.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Robb said quietly, “though I tried at first, I can no longer deny that you are an honest man, Aegon. Forgive me, but I cannot help but wonder where you got your sense of honour when you were raised for kingship by Connington.”

“I had a humble upbringing, I suppose,” Aegon said, “I saw things, endured hardships that no other prince ever has, I am certain of that. Connington did his best for me, taught me all he knew, and tried his best to raise me in my father’s image.” He paused at mention of his father, glancing at Robb again and noting that he still looked relaxed. “I don’t know what really happened during the Rebellion,” Aegon continued awkwardly, “but I do know that before that that people loved my father. That’s the man I want to be, the man they all revered. Not the man they say he became, but the man Connington told me about.”

“I understand that,” Robb said quietly, “and I cannot hold the Rebellion against you. You were a babe in arms, and I was not even born for the most part. My father never truly forgave Robert for what he did to your sister, and mother, and that…that baby…” Robb looked distinctly uncomfortable as he tailed off, and Aegon couldn’t blame him. Just thinking about what had happened in the Red Keep chilled him to his bones. “I don’t know how I will walk in there,” Aegon confessed quietly, turning his attention back to the flames.

“With your head held high,” Robb said firmly, “as you must, as you should. You are returning home, claiming your birth right. Your mother must have been desperate to do what she did, to entrust you to someone else who could easily have turned you over or killed you themselves. She did that to give you a chance at life. To give you a chance to someday walk into that keep and take your place on the Iron Throne. She may have died there, but you have a chance to _live_ there, and if she was anything like the mother I have, she would _want_ that for you more than anything. Vow to make it a place of joy and happiness. That is how you will find the strength to walk in there.”

“Thank you, Robb,” Aegon managed, his throat suddenly feeling rather constricted. “You’re welcome,” Robb said softly, and Aegon glanced to the side once more to see him gazing into the fire again. The faraway look was back in his eyes and Aegon decided that he had intruded on him enough for one night. “I think I will retire,” he said, rising up to his feet. Robb tilted his head upwards and nodded slightly in response. “Aye,” Robb said, “likely I will not be long behind you; we have another dawn start ahead of us.”

* * *

After speaking with Aegon, Robb finally reached his hand into his doublet and pulled out the folded parchment that Roslin had left him with. When she had handed it to him he had been desperate to unfold it right away, and he had been certain that he would do as soon as the procession heading north had departed. Something had stopped him though. Something inside wasn’t ready to see whatever she had written. Already he knew it would be something overwhelmingly sweet. Likely reassuring. Likely words of love. All at once he wanted to drink them in and hide from them. Already he missed her. Missed their daughter.

At this time they would usually be curled up in bed together, Bethany sleeping soundly in her cradle as they spoke softly about plans for the North. It was all Roslin had wanted to discuss on their journey, wanting to tell him her ideas so he could approve them. He had, of course. More than ever he knew that he and his wife wanted the same thing. Put simply, it was a safe and happy home for their family, and somewhere their people could be proud of. Robb had no doubt that Roslin would achieve it before he arrived home. The people would love her almost instantly, he knew that, given how his men had always clamoured and revered her.

He took a deep breath, turning her parting gift over in his hands. His head was full of a thousand memories of her. Most overwhelmingly good, and some that still managed to shame him. He hoped now that he was deserving of her, that he was the husband she could be proud of, glad to be joined to for the rest of her days. She loved him. That wasn’t in doubt, and so he could only believe that he was good enough for her. She had loved him for so long. Loved him even when he had been undeserving of her love. He closed his eyes and remembered that first time. His head rested against her stomach, his thoughts caught up in the idea of them sharing a child, as she had uttered those words for the first time. She had said them seemingly a thousand times since, and he was conjuring them all up in his mind now, trying not to think about how long it would be before he heard them in reality again.

He tried not to think about how changed Bethany would be when he returned. From what he could remember of his younger siblings, he imagined his daughter would be sat up unaided and eating soft foods when he returned. Likely she would have teeth poking through her gums, and be far noisier than she was now. A faint smile graced his lips as he thought of her, of his sweet little princess that he hadn’t known he had been missing before she had come into the world. He still couldn’t quite believe that he was partly responsible for her being in the world. That she was half him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm his inner emotion.

He had let it all out when they had left. Upended anything he could in his tent before breaking down completely. After that he had managed to get up off the ground and straighten things up again. He had determined to hold it together from then on, but he wasn’t sure how long his determination would last, give the parchment in his hand. Again, he turned it over and over in his hands, taking in another settling breath before he thumbed at the edge. Whatever Roslin had left him with, he couldn’t ignore it, she had spent time on it for him. He had to be brave and read what she had left him with. Perhaps it would be a comfort to him when the longing for her became too much.

After yet another breath he unfolded it, blinking stupidly for a moment when he saw what was on the parchment. It wasn’t a letter, as he had been expecting, it was a drawing. A beautiful sketch that she must have spent hours on. He tried to think when she would have had the time given the fact that he had barely let her out of his sight for the past few weeks. She must have worked on it at night, when Bethany had woken hungry and she had slipped out of bed to feed her. Robb would usually just mutter incoherently for a moment and then drift back to sleep as soon as Roslin had quietened their daughter. His wife must have stayed awake longer to create this perfect image for him. The perfect image of his smiling, happy princess.

A wide smile broke out on his own lips as he gazed down at the picture, amazed as always that Roslin had somehow known better than him exactly what he would need in their absence. He continued gazing down at the image for a long time before he finally noticed the three elegantly scrawled words right at the bottom of the parchment. They warmed his heart, his smile growing wider and his eyes welling with emotion once more.

_We love you._


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter everyone, hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thank you so much for the comment, and the kudos, I really appreciate it!
> 
> :)

* * *

Jeyne slipped out of the main room of the inn. She would leave Damon to laugh and enjoy the mead and the revelry, but she was tired, and the scent of mead and wine was enough to turn her stomach. He had offered to come with her but she had refused him. It was not often he had a night of freedom from his duties, and so she had bid him stay and enjoy himself. Likely she would just end up falling asleep soon enough anyway. Her pregnancy meant that she was more exhausted than usual at the end of each day of riding. They were near the Twins now, and Damon had told her that the queen was in two minds about whether she wanted to detour from the Kings Road and visit her family home or not. She was eager to get to Winterfell as soon as possible, but at the same time she did not want to insult her family.

As she climbed up the steps Jeyne couldn’t help thinking that it would be nice to stay somewhere for a few nights and recover her strength. Dawn starts and riding all through the day might see them to Winterfell more quickly, but it was not an easy thing to deal with. Jeyne made her way down the narrow hallway towards the chambers she and Damon were residing in in the night. She was lucky her husband was head of the Queensguard and there would be no question of them having to bed down in stables or under canvas during the journey. She rounded the last corner and almost collided with the queen, who was coming the other way.

“Oh, I am so sorry, my queen,” she apologised at once, dropping into a slight curtsey. “There is no need for that,” the queen said kindly, “it was hardly intentional. How are you, Jeyne? I feel as though I have barely seen you these past moons.”

“I am well indeed, my queen,” Jeyne responded with a smile, “though I must confess I am growing weary of all this travel.” The queen nodded sympathetically in response, eyeing her for a moment before she spoke again. “It is not the most comfortable thing, to travel whilst with child,” she said knowingly, and Jeyne knew a blush had risen up on her cheeks. “Forgive me,” the queen continued, “I know you have yet to announce it, but I grew rather suspicious of Damon’s good mood, and I wore him down eventually. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Jeyne couldn’t help but smile. Damon had wanted to shout their news to all who would listen, but she had forbidden him. She supposed she should have known that he would let it slip to the queen. The two of them had developed quite the friendship, which was likely a good thing considering how much time they had to spend together. Damon seemed hopeful that once they reached Winterfell that the guard around her could be relaxed a little, but she knew that he would still likely have a shift guarding her almost every day. Not that she minded, she herself would be busy trying to set up her clinic before she grew too big with child. Likely she would have to start training up an apprentice as soon as they reached Winterfell, to aid her once the baby came.

“You know,” the queen smiled as though she had just had an idea, “there is plenty of room in my carriage, and I would be glad to have some more company. You would be more than welcome to join us, if you would like. It might be a little less wearisome than riding.”

“Oh, I couldn’t impose on you like that,” Jeyne said at once, shaking her head. The queen just smiled in response, before reaching out her hand and clasping it around her upper arm for a moment. “I would be glad of the company,” she said insistently, “Lady Stark rides in the open with Arya, and I confess, as much as I usually enjoy her company, Sansa has been rather quiet and withdrawn on the journey. I think she is missing her husband, and I well understand her feelings, but they do nothing to help cheer me. You’d be doing me a favour, please, Jeyne.”

Her eyes were wide and almost pleading, and Jeyne felt herself giving in almost at once. No wonder the queen was so good at diplomacy, Jeyne had to wonder if anyone had ever refused her anything. “Very well,” Jeyne finally said in a half amused, half resigned tone. “I will join you in the carriage tomorrow if it please you, my queen.”

* * *

Robb emerged from the council tent as soon as he heard hooves against the hard ground. He had been informed already that the Greatjon and the Mormonts were approaching, and now he could see the man himself at the helm of the small approaching army. The rest of the men, he imagined, were already settling back into the camp. Robb was pleased to see them, though his stomach was already churning at the thought of coming face to face with Maege again. He had no idea what he was supposed to say to her, no way of knowing if his condolences would sound empty or hollow to her. Still, there was no more time to think on that, as she dismounted her horse just behind the Greatjon.

His towering general came before him first, bowing shortly before meeting Robb’s eyes and grinning widely. “Your Grace,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “My lord,” Robb bowed his own head, “I have much to thank you for.” The Greatjon again inclined his head, the smile on his face fading slightly as Maege came up to his side. “Your Grace,” she greeted, her tone the same as ever, though when Robb met her eyes he could see her loss shining back at him. “My lady,” he held her eyes, “I have not the words to tell you how sorry I am. Dacey will be missed by us all.”

“Thank you, your Grace,” she bowed her head, keeping it lowered for longer than usual. Robb imagined she needed a moment, and so he turned his attention back to the Greatjon. “How fares Winterfell?” he asked, and the older man sighed heavily. “Perhaps we should speak inside, your Grace?” the Greatjon suggested, and Robb nodded his agreement.

The Greatjon and Maege followed him back into the council tent, leaving their squires to deal with the horses. Aegon and Lord Karstark were also still present, and Robb nodded between them as he led the way in. Lord Karstark was off his feet at once and moving to grasp hands with the Greatjon. “You did the North proud,” he said, and Robb nodded his agreement. “You both did,” Lord Karstark moved to take both of Maege’s hands. “I am sorry for your loss, I know what it is to lose a child to war. But we always have the comfort of knowing they did not die in vain.”

“Thank you, Rickard,” Maege again bowed her head, and kept it lowered, and Robb moved to offer wine as to give her another moment. “I ought to introduce you both to Aegon Targaryen, rightful King to the Southern Kingdoms,” Robb gestured to his good-brother, and the Greatjon turned his eyes on him at once. For several minutes there was silence, and Robb couldn’t help but admire the way Aegon wasn’t shrinking back from the Greatjon’s intense gaze.

“You’ve got the look, that’s for certain, lad,” the Greatjon finally spoke, and Robb took a breath, seeing a faint smile adorn Aegon’s features. “If the King trusts you, then I do likewise.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Aegon said politely, and the Greatjon nodded, fixing him with a stare for a long moment before his eyes flickered back to Robb. “Winterfell?” Robb raised his brows at once, and the Greatjon gestured for him to take a seat. From that action, Robb had the feeling that he wouldn’t particularly like what his general had to say to him. So he sat, steeling himself for the worst, and trying not to think about exactly what he had sent his family towards.

“There was damage done to both gate houses in the efforts to recapture your seat, your Grace,” the Greatjon began, and Robb inclined his head. He had been expecting that. “Once we had it back under our control we began to assess the rest of the damage. The keep appeared to have been turned upside down, but there is little structural damage. Some of the towers have sustained damage, and some sections of the walls are beginning to crumble. It will be easily mended, your Grace, I can assure you of that,” he said, nodding almost fervently.

“What else?” Robb asked, knowing that they were holding something back from him, and knowing that he wouldn’t like it one bit. “The Sept,” the Greatjon began awkwardly, exchanging a look with Maege that Robb didn’t miss. “It has been desecrated,” he continued, “all those inside had been slaughtered, and just left there to rot. The effigies of the Seven have been disfigured, some broken beyond all repair. The door had been barricaded, sealed up almost like a tomb.”

Robb closed his eyes at the words, and took a long, deep breath. He himself did not worship the Seven, but he had married before them, and knew that his mother and his wife both knelt before them. Half of the people he ruled over worshipped them, more, perhaps. It was a monstrous act indeed to desecrate a place of worship. A place of peace, and sanctuary. He wondered if that had been what the people inside had been seeking. Had they fled to the Sept, craving its walls for protection, rather than risk running to the open space of the Godswood? It did not bear thinking about. It was sin indeed to raise arms and shed blood in such a place.

“I have implored my son to take every action to see it restored to its former state before the queen and your lady mother arrive back, your Grace,” the Greatjon was speaking again, and Robb nodded faintly, his head still spinning. “They cannot know,” Robb finally said, “the queen and my mother cannot know what happened there.”

The Greatjon nodded his agreement. “I took the liberty of assuming that is what your Grace would want,” he said, “the men know not to speak of what they discovered there.”

“Thank you,” Robb said, finally somewhat placated, though still more than a little troubled at the images his mind was conjuring. “The Godswood?” he finally asked, part of him not wanting to know what those bastards had done. “The weirwood has not been touched,” the Greatjon assured him. “But,” he continued, “we did find the remains of Maester Luwin, slain by the pool.”

“Oh, Gods,” Robb’s head dropped into his hands. His hands clenched into his hair as he tried to control his rising emotions. Between them Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik, and his father had taught him everything he knew about being a lord. It was because of them he was here now, somehow still alive and still fighting. “He has been buried with all honour, your Grace, I made sure of that myself,” the Greatjon told him gently, and Robb raised his head up from his hands. “Who did it?” he almost snarled.

“Having spoken to the townsfolk, it is unclear. He was slain during the Bolton bastard’s sack, I believe, your Grace. Though by men from the Dreadfort, or the Ironborn, I cannot know. Nor can I know how he came to be in the Godswood,” the Greatjon told him, and Robb clenched his fist on the table before pounding it so hard he felt his knuckles graze.

“Your Grace,” the Greatjon went on, “while I do not want to relay anymore ill news to you, I must also inform you that Ser Rodrik and his men were also slain. They besieged Winterfell but were set upon by the bastard and his men. Deceived, no doubt, into believing they had come to aid them, given the display of Northern banners.”

“They have no right!” Robb smashed his fist against the table again, getting up to his feet now. “No right,” he repeated, “to display those banners. If I _ever_ see a bastard banner of house Bolton again, whoever wields it will find themselves on the end of my sword. You write to your son, my lord, and you have him dispatch men to the Dreadfort at once. I want it pulled down. I want every stone taken down, and what we cannot use I would have razed to the ground. There will be nothing of Bolton nor his bastard left by the time I am finished!”

“Did you find Theon?!” he demanded before the Greatjon or anyone else present could react to his words. “No,” it was Maege who answered him, and his fists clenched again. “The bastard?” he snarled, and the Greatjon nodded his head. “He is imprisoned, your Grace,” the Greatjon assured him, but that was not enough to placate Robb.

“I want him dead,” Robb said, meeting each of the eyes looking at him in turn. “Do you wish me to order that of my son as well?” the Greatjon finally asked, and Robb nodded his head. “And find Theon Greyjoy,” he almost spat the name, “though that is a justice I will deal myself.”

“We think, perhaps, he may be at the Dreadfort. Likely Roose and his bastard imagined they could use him to barter with Balon,” Maege informed him, and Robb nodded. That made sense, he supposed. “We also have the daughter, Asha, captured at Deepwood. Though she has since been taken into the prison at Winterfell,” Maege continued.

“Good,” Robb said, nodding distractedly. He didn’t care much either way for the woman, but he wanted Theon found, and he wanted to look him in the eye before he took his useless head. The man was _supposed_ to have been his brother. He had trusted him blindly, against the advice of his mother and the uneasiness of his lords. He had been such a fool, what Theon had done in betraying him had led to all of this. To the sack of Winterfell, the slaughter of its people. But, he, Robb, had been the one to give him the order. He had been the one who enable him to commit such acts of treason. Thinking of Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin again had him clenching his fists once more. His head was pounding and his heart was aching, the knowledge that he could have prevented their deaths coursing through his veins.

* * *

There was a knock on the side of the carriage as they trundled along, and Roslin leant over to unhook the window. Ser Damon appeared as she let it drop and she smiled at him. “My queens,” he greeted, “my lady,” he looked passed her and winked at Jeyne. “We are approaching the Twins, it will not be long,” he continued, and Roslin did her best not to grimace. “Thank you,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t betray how little she was looking forward to this. Ser Damon merely nodded, before he pulled on the reins of his horse so he moved further from the carriage. Roslin pulled the window back into place to halt the draught before settling back in her seat with a huff. Neither Jeyne nor Sansa made any comment, both of them continuing to almost studiously fuss over Bethany, who was laying in her aunt’s arms.

Roslin had been in two minds since they had left Darry over whether or not she wanted to stop by the Twins on the way to Winterfell. Really, there would be no need, the Kings Road would take them where they wanted to go, there would be no need to trouble those at the crossing. Then again, she had not been back in over a year, and they were still her family. In the end she had decided to go. Catelyn had persuaded her, telling her she might regret it if she didn’t, given that winter was coming and she might not have the chance again for many years. Almost grudgingly she had given the order to head for the Twins, thinking that at least Marianne might be pleased to see her. Her father might be too, given his ambitions to imbed the Frey name into royalty again. He had certainly managed that, a queen and a princess in the space of a year.

Her eyes slid to the box set on the bench next to her, knowing it contained her crown. She wondered if she ought to wear it. Were Robb here she knew he would have insisted, and she could not deny that it would be satisfying to see the look on Arwyn’s face. That was a spiteful thing to think, and not very ladylike at all, but she couldn’t help it when she remembered her sister’s deliberately hurtful words about Robb. Well, Arwyn would have the smile wiped off her face, Robb loved Roslin, of that she was in no doubt. Arwyn could think what she liked, Roslin knew what she and her husband shared was real, and she would not let anything poison it.

As she thought that she felt the difference in the motion of the carriage beneath them, knowing that they must be passing under the gates. She made up her mind in the next moment, pulling the box onto her lap before opening it up and easing her crown gently from it. As she settled it atop her head she met Sansa’s eyes, earning a small smile from the younger girl. Roslin was sure that her father would somehow have heard that Sansa was married to Aegon, but she was not going to draw any attention to the fact on the slim chance that he knew nothing of it. The fewer people knew the better, and she knew if her father was aware of it then he would likely be bragging to all that would listen that he had another connection to royalty.

The carriage came to a halt as she set the now empty box aside, and in the next moment the door swung open to reveal Ser Damon once again. “My queen?” he outstretched his hand, and Roslin shifted to take it, allowing him to help her down onto the flagstones of the courtyard. She glanced up towards the main doors of the keep, seeing they were open, with two of her brothers stood on either side to greet her. She was unsurprised that her father had not made the effort to come out. Likely she would find him sat upon his high chair. Her mind was pulled from him though as Bethany was passed out of the carriage into Ser Damon’s waiting arms. She turned to take her at once, and one of the nurses darted forwards.

“Shall we take her, my queen?” she asked, dipping into a small curtsey. Roslin would prefer to keep her daughter in her own arms, but she supposed she ought to act the part of the dignified queen and allow the nurse to keep a hold of Bethany for now. “Thank you,” Roslin nodded to the woman, forcing a smile. Catelyn and Arya approached in the next moment, and Roslin could see the sympathy shining in her good-mother’s eyes. “Ready?” she asked Roslin tentatively, and she could do nothing but nod. “Of course,” Roslin forced her voice to come out brightly, “follow me.”

Ser Damon and three of her Queensguard seemed to flank around her as they made their way up towards the open doors. Her two brothers bowed lowly to her at her approach, and she swallowed hard. This was not quite the welcome she had been expecting. “My queen,” they both inclined their heads to her as she reached the top of the steps. “Benfrey, Perwyn,” she nodded to each of them, “I hope you are both faring well.”

“Well indeed, my queen,” Benfrey inclined his head once more, and Roslin tried not to feel overwhelmed by the formality of it all. She had long grown used to being addressed in such a manner, but never by her own family. Olyvar had always called her by her name, she had never wanted it any other way. “Father is waiting, if you will allow us to escort you inside, my queen?” Perwyn spoke up next, and Roslin was bewildered. He had never been so polite to her in her entire life. “Yes,” she managed, “thank you.”

With that they bowed again, before turning on their heels and leading her into the entrance hall. They walked the familiar steps towards the great hall, the armoured footsteps of her guards behind her. She could hear others clanking further back and she assumed that they were flanking the nurse who was carrying Bethany. The doors to the great hall were opened wide as they approached, and her brothers peeled off to the side, bowing lowly to her once more as she passed between them, trying to keep her steps steady as she approached her father sat on his perch. He had not changed much in their time apart. For as long as she remembered he had been the same. The hall seemed packed with Freys, half of them she could not seem to summon up a name for, though it was of no surprise. Likely half of them hadn’t known her name until she was chosen to be Robb’s queen.

She reached the base of the dais, intending to drop into a curtsey before her father. Before she could though, he was rising shakily to his feet, and she swallowed hard. Using his cane to aid him he dropped into something resembling a bow. “My queen,” he said, his tone as gruff as ever, though his eyes held a tiny glimmer of warmth in them. “Father,” she responded, bobbing into a curtsey. He came slowly down from the dais at that, coming to a halt in front of her and appraising her for a long moment. Roslin felt she could barely breathe as he made his inspection. Finally, he smiled. “Suits you,” he said quietly, his eyes lingering on the crown atop her head. She couldn’t help but smile at that, much of the tension leaving her.

“Where is she then?” he barked in the next moment, and Roslin almost jumped. It took her a moment to realise that he must be referring to Bethany, and so she turned and beckoned the nurse forwards, easing her daughter in her bundle of blankets into her arms. Bethany grumbled slightly at being jiggled, and Roslin hushed her gently, rocking her slightly to soothe her. Thankfully it worked, and she turned back to her father to present his newest granddaughter to him. He peered into the blankets for a long moment before turning his attention back to Roslin. “She has your look,” he said, “your mother’s look. Stark’s eyes, are they?” Roslin nodded at his enquiry. “Aye, I can see the Tully, but plenty Frey,” he went on, “King should have no trouble finding her a match when the time comes.”

“No, I don’t imagine he will,” Roslin agreed with him quietly, rocking her slightly again as she began to grumble. “Guest chambers have been made up,” her father informed her briskly, “we will feast tonight, though I expect you will leave early on the morrow.”

“Most like,” Roslin agreed with him, and he fixed her with an odd look for a moment before turning away from her. “Marianne,” he snapped, clapping his hands together, “escort the queen and her guests to their rooms, make sure they have everything they need.” Marianne darted forwards at once, and Roslin smiled warmly at her, trying to convey without words that she was the same Roslin who had left the Twins all that time ago. “Thank you, father,” she murmured in an undertone, and he nodded briskly. She turned back to Marianne then, and was about to ask her to show them out, when her father’s hand landed on her forearm. Roslin turned back, and she could see him struggling with his words. “Roslin,” he finally managed, and she raised her brows expectantly, “welcome home.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love how people are so paranoid about this trip to the Twins *cackles*
> 
> Sorry, that's evil.
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you all for the comments and kudos.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> :)

 

* * *

“You know, you really don’t have to do this. I am perfectly capable of fixing my own hair,” Roslin told Marianne in a slightly amused tone, eyeing her niece in the mirror. “I don’t mind,” Marianne said at once, “and besides, if I am attending on you then grandfather won’t be able to find me anything else to do.” Roslin couldn’t help but laugh at that, and Marianne’s own lips quirked up into a wide smile. They lapsed into silence then as Marianne continued braiding her hair back from her face, leaving the back to hang loose. There was such a look of intense concentration on her face that Roslin was almost afraid to speak up again.

She did so, in the end, when she felt Marianne slide a pin into her hair before taking up another section. “How have things been here, since I left?” she asked, and Marianne shrugged her shoulders before rolling her eyes. “Arwyn sulked for nigh on three moons,” Marianne informed her, and she snorted in a rather unladylike manner. “I know I shouldn’t,” she said after a moment, “but after the way she was with me, I cannot help it. She would have been miserable anyway, Robb would not have tolerated her, I know that much.”

“Does he tolerate you?” Marianne asked with a raised brow, and Roslin smirked slightly. “I like to think he does a little more than tolerate me,” she said in an amused tone, and a blush rose up on Marianne’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” her niece apologised at once, “I meant no offence. It’s just…well, when you left…you didn’t seem _optimistic._ ”

“For a time I confess it was difficult,” Roslin admitted, “but that seems like so long ago now. I grew to love Robb, and he grew to love me. Now we share a daughter, and any awkwardness or resentment that was ever between us is gone, and…” she tailed off, taking a deep breath, “and Gods, I miss him.”

“I’m sorry, Roslin,” Marianne apologised at once as tears sprang up in Roslin’s eyes, “I never meant to upset you…” Roslin shook her head, and she tailed off, looking at her concernedly in the mirror. “I know you didn’t,” she assured her, managing a smile, “it just creeps up on me at unexpected moments, that’s all.”

“It won’t be forever,” Marianne said, sliding a final pin into her hair before placing her hands on her shoulders and squeezing lightly. “No,” Roslin agreed, “no it won’t be. Thank you, for doing my hair. I know I said there was no need, but it looks wonderful, far more intricate than anything I usually have.”

“Well, you are the queen,” Marianne said teasingly, “you ought to tell your attendant to do it the same for you sometimes.” Roslin laughed lightly at that, turning around on the stool and looking up at her niece. “I would, if I had an attendant,” she told her, and her brow furrowed at once. “How can you not have an attendant? Queens ought to have a dozen attendants!” Marianne looked scandalised and Roslin couldn’t help but laugh again. “And where did you read that?” she asked.

“Do you really not even have one?” Marianne asked her in astonishment, clearly ignoring her question. “No, I have never had need for one,” Roslin told her, “Robb forming a Queensguard for me was more than enough fuss, thank you very much. The last thing I needed was to drag some poor girl into a war camp to do my hair and help me tie my laces.”

“But you are not in a war camp anymore,” Marianne stressed, “you are going to Winterfell, to rule the North while the King is fighting a war. The people will look to you to hold court and entertain. You will have to look perfectly beautiful and unaffected so the people do not worry about what is happening in the Southern Kingdoms. You need to look effortless, and… _regal._ ”

“Are you saying I cannot make myself look regal?” Roslin asked with a raised brow, and Marianne huffed in response. “I am saying you will have quite enough to busy yourself with, so why not take some ladies who can help you,” Marianne said with a shrug, and Roslin eyed her for a long moment before a wide smile spread across her face. “What?” Marianne asked suspiciously.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Roslin said slowly, “perhaps it would be for the best. But I would hate to have anyone around me that I would not be able to get along with. Best that I know them already…” she tailed off, but Marianne still looked confused. “Marianne,” she met her eyes, “would you like to come to Winterfell as my chief lady?”

“Oh!” Marianne clapped her hands in excitement, her eyes sparkling. “Really?!” her niece’s voice was a pitch higher than usual, and Roslin nodded happily. “Oh, Roslin, thank you!” Before she knew it Marianne’s arms were around her neck, and she held her back for a moment before prising her gently away with another laugh. “But, do you think grandfather will allow me?” Marianne asked her, biting down on her lip worriedly. “You leave him to me,” Roslin said, imagining her father would be happy to let another hungry mouth leave the Twins; “I will see to it.”

* * *

Olyvar wasn’t sure how to feel when they passed under the gates of Winterfell. Neither, it seemed, did any of his Northern companions. Most of them were grim faced, eyes darting about the surroundings, which even Olyvar knew had been altered dramatically. Still, there was movement, and it looked as though whoever were Castellan until Roslin’s arrival had already ordered repair work to begin. “What is that?” he asked Bran, nodding towards one building where most of the builders seemed to be bustling in and out of. “The Sept,” Bran answered him, his own eyes fixed on it, and his brow furrowed. Olyvar felt a cold chill run through him as he imagined what animals would think to lay waste to a Sept.

Before he could dwell too long on it though, they were being hailed, and he recognised the Smalljon descending the steps of what could only be the main keep. “We’ve been expecting you,” he smiled, nodding towards Olyvar before turning his attention to the still mounted Bran and Rickon. Olyvar dropped down from his own horse, beckoning Hodor to aid Bran from his own. Rickon slid down clumsily from his own mount, and to Olyvar’s surprise, came instantly to his side and slipped his hand into his. He was regarding the Smalljon rather suspiciously and Olyvar looked to him, trying to apologise without words for Rickon’s hostile behaviour. He could well understand it, the poor boy’s frustration at being greeted by yet another stranger who was not his mother.

“Where’s mother?” Rickon demanded, as if on cue. Again, Olyvar sent the Smalljon an apologetic look, but the older man seemed unfazed. “You have made rather good time, Lord Rickon,” the Smalljon smiled widely, “far better than your lady mother and the queen will make with all their marching guard and a young princess to attend on. They will be another few weeks, at most.”

Rickon didn’t look entirely placated at that, but thankfully Bran spoke up before he could say anything that could be deemed rude. “That’s not so long to wait,” he said, “hardly anything compared to how long it has already been.”

“Exactly,” the Smalljon clapped his hands together, beaming. “And work has begun on the repairs, with the luck of the Gods perhaps much of the serious damage can be rectified before they arrive. Still, that is not for you to trouble yourselves with, little lords, perhaps you would prefer to visit your own chambers again? I have a few things to discuss with your Uncle Olyvar before the feast tonight.”

“Yes, come on, little lords,” Osha seemed to have noticed the Smalljon’s almost insistent look, already ushering Rickon towards the steps. “Come, Hodor!” she called back over her shoulder, and Hodor followed her easily with Bran still draped in his arms. “Come,” the Smalljon nodded to Olyvar, “there is some good wine waiting for us in one of the parlours. A letter from the King arrived today, and we have had word from the Wall, and Stannis.”

Olyvar didn’t much like the sound of that, a frown furrowing his brow as he followed the Smalljon into the keep. He cast his eyes around the entrance hall. It looked mostly untouched, though a few of the floor tiles looked as though they had come loose. The Smalljon led him across it and down a hallway to the right. Half way down he stopped at a door and pushed it open, gesturing Olyvar to enter ahead of him. He did so, glad of the warmth that was coming from the roaring fire. It hadn’t been until he had stepped foot inside the keep that he had realised just how cold he was.

He heard the clink of cups as he warmed his hands, his eyes watching the progress of the dancing flames. Somehow he tried very hard not to let his mind wander to places he was trying to avoid. Pleased when the Smalljon cleared his throat to draw his attention. He turned back from the fire and took the cup of wine he offered with thanks. They knocked cups before both taking a drink, Olyvar’s rather longer than his companions. When he lowered it again he moved to sit, the Smalljon lowering himself into the armchair opposite him.

“What word from the King?” Olyvar asked after he had taken another mouthful of wine. The Smalljon sighed heavily before answering. “He has asked me to deal with the bastard from the Dreadfort, and to send men there to have it pulled down,” he told him, “I have already sent the men. They know what they are tasked with. Find Greyjoy, then erase all traces of Bolton from the North. I think news of Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik have made him act more quickly, more ruthlessly. There was another command, but I…” he tailed off, taking a drink of wine. Olyvar frowned, and was about to press him on it when he spoke up again. “Any man found wearing the Bolton sigil, or bearing their banners is to be put to death.”

Olyvar raised his brows at that, wondering what Roslin would think of such a command as he took another sip from his wine. “I wonder if the queen knows?” the Smalljon voiced his own thoughts on the matter, and Olyvar looked up to meet his eyes. The Smalljon was watching him, evidently wanting his opinion on his sister’s thoughts. “I cannot think she does,” Olyvar said, “it was her idea to take down the Dreadfort, but she was always insistent that the smallfolk be taken care of. For some, clothing stitched with the Bolton sigil may be their warmest. The King was always insistent that the army was well clothed, surely he could not blame a poor man for wanting to keep warm?”

“What do you think the queen would do?” the Smalljon asked, and Olyvar sighed. He was asking him to try and guess what went on inside his sister’s mind. Roslin had always been a thinker, he was more of a doer, and she had only grown even shrewder with her marriage to the King. Trying to work out what she would do in this situation was enough to make his own head ache. “I wouldn’t like to guess,” Olyvar finally said, “but I know this, if you follow this order from the King before she arrives, then she will be less than pleased. You have been positioned here to advise her, and she will not like this being done in her absence. I do not envy your position, my lord, caught between the King’s order and the imminent arrival of the queen.”

“You think I should ignore the King’s order?” the Smalljon asked, looking almost aghast at the very idea. “You have not ignored it,” Olyvar placated him, “you have sent men to the Dreadfort, but I would suggest turning a blind eye to these sigils until the queen arrives and sees his instruction with her own hand. Let her take the decision then, if she doesn’t like it, as I suspect she won’t, then she will deal with persuading the King otherwise. What he really wants is Greyjoy, I don’t think he really wants to punish nameless men just for bearing a sigil. Likely he wrote the letter in anger and haste, just…keep a calm head and show restraint until the queen arrives and sorts it out.”

“Thank you,” the Smalljon said, looking far more placated now, as he sipped down some more of his wine. “You’re welcome,” Olyvar returned, “what was this other news, from the Wall and Stannis?”

“Stannis has finally left the Wall,” the Smalljon said, “why he lingered there so long I cannot imagine, though it is not so hard to imagine that his red witch has something to do with it. Where he is going they could not tell me, but unless he has marched out into the wild he will be coming south. Coming our way. If the Gods are good then queen and her men will arrive before he gets within a hundred leagues of Winterfell, but we have to be prepared. There is a reason the builders are concentrating on our outer defences rather than inside the keep.”

“And the Sept,” Olyvar said knowingly, and a grimace graced the older man’s features. “My father ordered it restored before the queen and Lady Stark arrive,” he explained, “best that they never know what happened to it, that’s what he said, and I have to say, I agree with him.” Olyvar wondered if he dared ask what had happened, but then decided he would rather remain ignorant. The Seven were his Gods too, he would like to be able to pray before them without thinking about what had happened in that place beforehand. “I don’t think I want to know either,” he told the Smalljon, and he nodded his understanding.

“Was there word from Jon, has he been granted leave from the Wall?” Olyvar asked, changing the subject. “That was the other word from the Wall,” the Smalljon answered him, “he has been given permission to take leave. If his journey is unhindered then he ought to arrive here not long after the queen.”

“Good,” Olyvar nodded his head vaguely. He was still in two minds over what to do. Jojen had told him that he could get the letter from Bran if necessary. They could easily steam the seal free and read the content, before resealing it as though it had never been opened. Olyvar hadn’t asked him to do it though, he was half afraid of betraying Bran’s trust and invading Jon’s privacy, and half terrified about his and Jojen’s suspicions being confirmed on the page. If the Smalljon’s calculations were correct then Roslin would arrive here first. He could ask her what to do, she would know, or at least she would have a better idea of what to do than he did.

“What do you suppose is so important in that letter that it could not be trusted to a raven?” the Smalljon asked curiously, and Olyvar shrugged, taking a sip of wine as to hopefully not give himself away. “I don’t know,” he said, hoping he looked sufficiently clueless, “but I suppose we will not have to wait long to find out.”

* * *

Robb watched through narrowed eyes as Connington made his way across the camp, his destination clearly Aegon’s tent. He felt Grey Wind come to his side as he watched, his wolf settling on his haunches next to him. Connington’s gaze found them in the next moment, and a low growl left Grey Wind. Robb moved his hand to rest on top of his wolf’s head at the sound. “Easy,” he murmured to his faithful companion, and his growls ceased. Connington’s eyes had moved away from them, and he was moving ever closer to Aegon’s tent now. Again, Robb’s eyes narrowed as the man paused outside. For a moment he wondered if Aegon would allow him an audience, given that they had not spoken for over two weeks.

It seemed, however, that his good-brother was finally willing to speak to the man who had once been his closest advisor. Connington pulled back the flap of the tent and made his way inside. Grey Wind whined slightly, and Robb looked down on him, seeing an almost insistent look in his yellow eyes. “Make sure he’s safe,” Robb told him, and Grey Wind yapped once, before rising up to his feet and making his way towards the tent. Robb watched him, seeing him sniff around the flap before trotting the perimeter. He himself stayed where he was, lowering himself down onto a fallen log and keeping his eyes on his wolf. There had always been something he didn’t particularly like about Connington, and now it seemed that Grey Wind shared his sentiments, and he was not about to doubt the instincts of his faithful beast.

* * *

Aegon looked up from writing to Sansa as he felt the sudden gust of wind rush through his tent. He raised a brow expectantly when he saw Connington standing there, but it seemed the older man would not be the one to speak first. Aegon lay his quill down and rose up from the chair. “Do you have something to say to me, Ser?” he asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the man he had always imagined would back him in anything. “I was…hasty,” Connington said, and Aegon almost snorted, “I ought not to have said all I said to you, your Grace.”

“You ought not to have said any of it,” Aegon snapped at him, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of anger in Connington’s eyes. “I speak only of what I believe will be best for you, your Grace,” he returned, “I have not brought you this far to see you fall now.”

“One thing that will ensure my fall is making an enemy of Robb Stark,” Aegon told him in a calm fury, “can you not see that? Without his men we would all perish against the walls of King’s Landing. Do you not think that tossing his sister aside without thought nor care as soon as I sit the Iron Throne would turn him against us? Do you think he would just allow such a dishonourable sleight? March back to the North and let me get on with it?”

“I went too far in suggesting you set aside the Sta- the queen,” Connington corrected himself hastily, “but I wish you would at least give thought to what I said about Daenerys. If making an enemy of Robb Stark is one thing that will ensure your fall, then ignoring the threat from her and her dragons is another one. Take her as your wife. You don’t have to love her, you don’t even have to bed her, all she wants is the title of queen. You can give her that, and in return you will have three of the most powerful weapons in the Kingdoms.”

“And you would have me use those weapons to bring the North and the Riverlands to their knees once more?” Aegon raised a brow, and Connington shifted slightly from foot to foot. “The Kingdoms are better united,” he said quietly, and Aegon made an angry noise in the back of his throat. “I will _not_ be responsible for starting another war in Westeros,” Aegon said firmly.

“There would be no war!” Connington looked desperate. “Don’t you see, Aegon? Stark would kneel, just as Torrhen knelt before your ancestor all those years ago! He would not allow his people to suffer and die knowing that it would all be for nothing in the end. He will take off that crown he wears and lay it at your feet, and then _you,_ you will have the potential to be even greater than Aegon the Conqueror. They will remember your name until the end of time, you mark my words.”

“I don’t want to be remembered for the rest of time,” he shook his head, “not for that anyway. I want to bring peace and unity to the Kingdoms that I will rule over. I want an end to hostility, I want the people to feel safe again. I want us to survive this winter unscathed. If that confines me to be forgotten or overlooked hundreds of years from now, then so be it. That future does not concern me, what concerns me is what I do now. How people think of me now. I will not repeat the mistakes of my family. I will not take a second wife while my first still lives, and I would not join myself in marriage to a member of my own kin. _That_ is my final word on the matter, now are you willing to remain here and swear your loyalty to me, and all that I intend to do?”

Connington gazed at him for a long time, his expression conflicted. Aegon kept his own features still, and calm, just waiting for his answer. He hoped he would stay, that he could accept the fact that Aegon wanted to make his own decisions, and be able to live with them. Connington had been the one who had taught him all he knew, raised him as a prince and a future king, even when they had had next to nothing. For so long they had lived like smallfolk, with nothing but hope and the occasional correspondence from Varys to keep their spirits up. Now they were here in Westeros, with an army at their back and a real hope of taking the greatest prize of all. Aegon didn’t want to seat the Iron Throne without Connington at his side, but he would not compromise his honour or his promises to Sansa and her family.

“I have seen you this far, Aegon,” Connington finally spoke up, “you have changed, since being here. Perhaps it is because you know you are finally home. I would not desert you now, but nor will I pretend to be happy with everything you are doing. Please understand, I speak up because I care for you, because I do not want you to make a wrong turn. I cannot promise you will like all that comes from my mouth, but I will only ever give you honest council, and I will carry out your orders whatever they may be. Even if I may not like them. If you can accept that, your Grace, then I will stay.”

“I can accept that,” Aegon inclined his head, and Connington nodded curtly. Aegon outstretched his hand then, and he grasped it firmly for a moment before letting go and bowing his head once more. “Your Grace,” he said, his tone slightly stiff to Aegon’s ears, before he turned on his heel and brushed the canvas of the tent aside. Aegon sighed as he stamped away, uneasiness still niggling at him. He determined to put it aside, moving back towards the desk so he could continue his letter to Sansa. Best he write it now, as he was sure that their march south would not continue unhindered for much longer. They were braced at any time for a Lannister assault, but so far none had come and each day they came closer to the Capitol.

Robb had suggested that they might be gathering all their forces to King’s Landing. That it would be decided by one huge battle. He had also warned that it could end in a siege, and that Aegon may have to be patient a while longer. That had made him laugh. He had been patient all his life; that was one virtue he had in abundance. Just as he hesitated over how to sign off his letter he heard Robb’s unmistakable tones calling through the canvas. “Come!” Aegon called, he was actually glad his good-brother was here, he needed his counsel on something. He stamped in in the next moment, his direwolf on his heels. Still the beast made him want to shrink back from it, and he had yet to get his head around the image of Sansa with one. She had lost her own, but had fussed and fussed over Robb’s. Aegon had had to restrain himself from pulling her away every time she went near it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he spoke before Robb could, and was met with a raised brow. “I’ve been thinking about Dorne,” Aegon went on, “Connington promised he would make contact with them, but I…” he tailed off, not sure if he wanted to admit that he no longer had full trust in his advisor. “You feel you ought to do it yourself,” Robb finished for him, “given the fact that you are king, and kin.”

“Yes,” Aegon agreed, grateful for the excuse. He imagined that Robb had deciphered the real reason by himself, but was glad he had decided against voicing it. “So send word,” Robb said with a shrug, dropping himself into a vacant chair. “I don’t think I could,” Aegon said, “Connington always did these kind of things through Varys. That was how it was arranged for Sansa to be brought across the Narrow Sea.” There was a flicker of irritation on Robb’s expression now, and Aegon decided to plough on quickly. “Anyway, I thought it best, if perhaps he was the one to reach out to Dorne on our behalf, but…” again he tailed off, twisting his hands together. “But?” Robb raised a brow.

“But he was always Connington’s man, I’m not sure I should,” Aegon said, and Robb fixed him with his blue stare for a long moment before he rose slowly out of his chair. “You’re king, not Connington,” Robb told him firmly, “I know it’s not easy finding your feet in the midst of a war, but you have to find them, and find them fast. You can’t show any hint of weakness or indecision. The men will pick up on it, and that’s when you will really have a problem. You need to show them that you’re a cause worth fighting for. So, write to Varys, and _tell_ him you want to reach out to Dorne. He is not Connington’s man. He did not trouble himself to smuggle you from the Capitol and keep you safe all these years for Connington. He did not risk his life to smuggle you a wife across the Narrow Sea for Connington. He did it for you, Aegon, because he saw you as the rightful king. So, write and tell him, because he is _your_ man.”


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! New chapter for you all, hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, it's much appreciated as always!
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Roslin felt the change beneath the carriage wheels and her heart leapt. They had already been told that they were approaching Winterfell, and now she was almost certain that they had passed under the gates. She took a deep, steadying breath, wondering who would be there to greet them. There had been much pain here in the absence of the Starks, and she only hoped the people would give them a chance to mend it. The Smalljon had informed her of progress, and she could only hope that it could continue more swiftly now they had brought more men back with them. She knew all too well that she would never be able to fix everything. There were some things that could never be mended. Lives that had been taken, altered forever. She could try and make things better though, really, it was all that she could do.

There were shouts from outside that almost made her jump, and the carriage slowly came to a halt. She turned her head to Marianne, who was cradling Bethany, and her new chief lady offered her an encouraging smile. This was it. When she stepped down from this carriage she would be stepping into Winterfell. Into the place she had been lady of since she had married Robb, but never laid eyes on. The place where she would spend the rest of her days, if the Gods were good. Another deep breath and the door of the carriage opened. Ser Damon stood there as usual, and he offered his hand up at once. Roslin nodded towards Sansa and Jeyne sat opposite her to encourage them to leave the carriage first. Doubtless Sansa would be itching to see Winterfell and her brothers again anyway.

Again Roslin looked towards Marianne, reaching towards her and rearranging some of the blankets more securely around Bethany. The door of the carriage had only been open for a moment, but she could already feel the difference in the temperature. She had been told countless times that winter was coming, but now she actually believed it. “Do you want her?” Marianne asked her, and she instinctively wanted to say yes. She shook her head though, thinking it best that she keep her arms free to greet whoever had come out to welcome them. “Keep a tight hold of her,” she told Marianne, “and make sure to take her into the keep as soon as it is polite to do so.” Marianne nodded her agreement, and Roslin took another deep breath before she finally took hold of Ser Damon’s hand and climbed down from the carriage.

Her eyes immediately scanned her surroundings as her feet hit solid ground. Around them the men were milling, and stable boys coming to attend to horses, but all Roslin could see was the towering buildings around them. The stone was as grey as the sky, but it held nothing of the bleakness that it could have done. Winterfell really was as beautiful as the paintings in her books had suggested it was, and so much bigger than she had imagined in her head. She felt Ser Damon’s hand squeeze hers lightly as tears pricked at her eyes, and she managed a smile, thanking him in an undertone before letting go of his hand so he could help Marianne and Bethany from the carriage. Her eyes found Catelyn, Arya and Sansa, and she sent a smile their way before glancing back to make sure Marianne was ready. She looked to have Bethany in a tight grip, and she inclined her head to her before leading the way towards her good-mother and good-sisters.

“I would have thought you would have gone right ahead, I’m sorry if I kept you,” Roslin apologised at once, but Catelyn shook her head, smiling. “We have to observe some propriety,” she said in an amused tone, “you are the queen. The people want to see you, to recognise you. It’s only right that you lead us to the keep.”

“Then I’d best get on with it,” Roslin said, returning her good-mother’s smile before she set her sights on the vastness of the keep. There were still men milling backwards and forwards, and she was so short that they rather obscured her view of the welcoming party, but she could just about see the Smalljon towering above the crowds. She took two steps towards the keep before her Queensguard leapt into action, moving to make sure the crowds parted to allow her through. They did so, and somehow she managed to keep her steps steady and a smile on her face. Some of the townsfolk were craning their necks to get a better look at her. She heard more than one excited child exclaiming, and she turned her head towards the sound. They were pointing at her, excited smiles lighting up their faces. She inclined her head to them, her smile widening.

She moved her eyes back to the steps of the keep in the next moment, to her surprise only seeing Olyvar and the Smalljon waiting for them. Her brow furrowed as she led the party closer, they had been told that Bran and Rickon had been returned, and had expected them to be stood waiting. Before she could open her mouth to question anyone, the Smalljon had stepped forward and swept into a low bow before her. When he rose he extended his hand, and she placed her own in his easily. “My queen,” he greeted her, before placing a light kiss to the back of her hand, “welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she smiled at him, and he let go of her hand. “I must say, we were expecting another two.” She lowered her voice, and he nodded his understanding, glancing towards Catelyn. Roslin gestured her forwards, and the Smalljon bestowed a formal greeting on her as well before explaining her youngest sons absence in hushed tones. “Lord Bran did not wish to come out, he said he would not feel comfortable with all the crowds given his… _condition_ ,” he said meaningfully, and Catelyn nodded, “and Lord Rickon did not wish to leave his brother alone.”

“The Gods bless him,” Catelyn sounded rather choked, her hand placed to her heart, “he was always such a boisterous little boy, it seems he has grown more sensitive in my absence.” Roslin reached her hand to rest on the back of Catelyn’s shoulder, rubbing up and down in a soothing manner for a moment. “You go ahead with Sansa and Arya,” she told her good-mother, “I will follow on in a moment, after I have seen Olyvar.” Catelyn nodded her understanding, turning to gesture her daughters towards her. “Perhaps you can escort them, my lord,” Roslin looked to the Smalljon, “you and I can speak later.”

“As you wish, my queen,” he bowed to her once more, before moving to lead Catelyn and the girls up the steps of the keep. Roslin moved her eyes at once to Olyvar, seeing his own shining. Without a word she crossed to him, and they met in a tight embrace. Her brother’s head was heavy on her shoulder, and she could tell from how stiff he was in her arms that he was tensing himself to keep his emotion at bay. “I’m so sorry, Olyvar,” she whispered, and he seemed to tighten his grip on her momentarily. “Thank you,” he finally whispered back, sounding more than a little choked. “I think you and I need some time later, too,” she murmured, and he nodded against her shoulder. “Would you like to meet your niece?” Roslin asked him as they broke apart, and he nodded again, obviously not trusting himself to speak.

“Oh, and my new chief lady,” Roslin added as she gestured Marianne towards them. “Marianne,” Olyvar greeted with a raised brow, and a slight smile, “another escapee from the Twins.” Marianne giggled at that, a light blush adorning her cheeks. “I only wanted to be of help to the queen,” Marianne said, and Olyvar raised one brow in obvious scepticism before he stepped closer and held his arms out to receive the baby. “This is Bethany,” Roslin told him as he secured the bundle in his arms, his eyes soft as he looked down on her. “She looks like you,” he observed after a moment, “like mother, you named her well.”

“I couldn’t have named her anything else,” Roslin told him with a smile, “though when she wakes you will see she has Robb’s eyes, so not quite all me.” Olyvar chuckled slightly at that, and Roslin’s smile widened. She only turned her eyes from her brother and daughter when Marianne pulled slightly on her arm, moving her attention to her. “Roslin, look,” Marianne pointed up towards the battlements, and Roslin looked, a gasp leaving her when she saw the banners fluttering up there. One was the direwolf sigil she had seen a thousand or more times. The other, though, was one she had never seen. A crowned direwolf on a background of unmistakably Frey blue. “A gift from Robb,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with tears once more. “That’s so lovely,” Marianne commented, taking the words right from Roslin’s own mouth.

* * *

Catelyn was glad of the Smalljon’s brisk pace as he led the way down the hallways towards the parlour where her youngest boys were waiting for her. Her heart was pounding madly in her chest, at such a rate that she was faintly surprised that it had not thudded past her ribcage yet. She tried to take some deep, composing breaths, but the Smalljon had come to a halt, gesturing to the door and inclining his head to her. “I will leave you in privacy, my lady,” he murmured, and she nodded her thanks, her mouth so dry she didn’t feel able to speak. The Smalljon didn’t seem offended, smiling slightly before bobbing his head to her, Sansa and Arya in turn. With that, he made back the way they had just come, and Catelyn hesitantly reached her hand out to open the door.

She barely had time to register a thing when she opened it, as a shrieking Rickon rushed at her. Likely a foot taller, and his hair even wilder than when she had left him. He barrelled into her, his arms wrapping around her waist as she crushed him to her, her vision blurred with tears. She blinked them back, stroking her hand through her youngest son’s hair as he sobbed against her stomach. Her eyes found Bran propped on the sofa, his eyes meeting hers. For a moment she thought she could see hardness and accusation. _I’m sorry_ , she mouthed at him, and his expression softened at once. On seeing it she gently prised Rickon away, cupping her hands around his cheeks to tilt his head up to meet her gaze. She thumbed away his tears and smiled widely at him.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she told him fiercely, “both of you,” she shifted her gaze to Bran, “I have missed you both so much.” Rickon pressed into her side then as she stepped towards Bran, and she could feel Sansa and Arya moving behind her as well. She dropped down onto the sofa next to Bran, relinquishing her hold on Rickon, who was instantly swept up by his sisters. “I don’t know what you were thinking,” she looked to Bran, trying to sound stern, though her lips were quirking up of their own accord on account of seeing him awake and alert with her own eyes. “I’m sorry I made you worry,” Bran replied, and she moved to crush him into an embrace at once, repeatedly kissing the top of his head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Catelyn told him, “I am only sorry for what you and Rickon have had to endure in our absence. If I had had any idea that you would not be perfectly safe here…” she tailed off, shaking her head, refusing to allow her resentment of Theon Greyjoy spoil this reunion with her boys. “It’s alright, mother,” Sansa told her reassuringly, “we are safe here now, and nothing will touch Winterfell again.”

“They’d be mad to try,” Arya added ferociously, and Catelyn couldn’t help but smile at the steely look of determination in her eyes. “Come here, all of you, come on,” she beckoned the girls and Rickon to her, arms outstretched. They hesitated a moment, but she beckoned them again. “Come,” she insisted, “you are none of you too old to be embraced by your mother.”

They moved then, smiles on their faces as they all squashed onto the sofa and against one another. Catelyn wrapped her arms around as many of them as possible and breathed out a contented sigh of relief. Even when she had arrived in the courtyard of Winterfell she had still not dared to believe that she was so close to being with Bran and Rickon again. It had still seemed impossible, after everything that had been and everything that was still to come, that all five of her children were safe and well. She closed her eyes, sending a silent prayer to the Mother in thanks, and another to the Warrior, to watch over Robb now that she was away from him.

“Will Robb be back soon?” Rickon asked, almost as though he had read her thoughts. “I certainly hope so,” Catelyn told him honestly, “but he still has some matters to attend to in the south. He wants to make sure that our borders are well secured so he never has to ride to war again.”

“What about the dragons?” Bran asked her, and she wondered if he meant Aegon, or if he knew about the rumours from the east. “Dragons?” she repeated, holding her breath for his answer. “The comet,” Bran answered her, “Osha said it was a sign of dragons, and both Jojen and I have seen them coming. We don’t know when, or why, but they are coming, mother. I know it.”

“They will not be like the dragons of old,” Catelyn said, trying to keep the shake out of her voice, “if they are true then there can be no suggestion that they will be that big and monstrous. The last dragons were weak, as small as dogs.”

“It’s true,” Arya agreed with her, “I saw the skulls in the Red Keep. They were so small that one of the wolves could easily best a dozen of them. If there are dragons coming, Grey Wind will be able to snap their necks in no time.” Catelyn grimaced at that rather unpleasant image, but decided against chastising Arya as she was helping bolster her point. “But these dragons were big,” Bran insisted, “the biggest was black and red, and was ridden by a woman. I saw it, mother, I swear.”

“Alright, Bran,” she soothed him, running her hand through his hair, “I will write to Robb and warn him of what you have seen, if it will placate you.” Bran nodded against her at that, settling his head down against her shoulder. “Good,” she breathed a sigh of relief, and thankfully there was no more talk of dragons. In fact, there was no more talk at all until a soft knock came at the door some time later. “Come,” Catelyn called, and it opened slowly in the next moment. “I’m not intruding, am I?” it was Roslin’s head that poked around the door, and she shook her head at once.

“No, of course not, come on in and meet Bran and Rickon,” Catelyn invited her at once, and she came properly into the room, Bethany cradled in her arms. Arya rose up from the sofa to close the door behind her, earning her a grateful smile and thanks from Roslin. “Boys, this is Roslin, Robb’s wife, and their daughter, Bethany,” Catelyn introduced, and Rickon sat up straighter. “It is a pleasure to meet you both,” Roslin smiled between them, “I have heard so much about you from Robb and your mother. I’m so glad to see you both safe and well.”

“Thank you,” Bran said politely, and Roslin’s smile widened. “I know things might be a little strange at the moment, but I’m sure given a little time we will all find our way,” Roslin said sweetly, bouncing Bethany in her arms a little as she let out an irritated grumble. “Rickon may appear shy at first,” Catelyn told her, “but I would advise you to enjoy the quiet while you can, it will not last.” Rickon furrowed his brow at that, but didn’t say a word in protest. “Well, we have been introduced now,” Roslin spoke again, as Bethany grew even grumpier, “I will leave you to have some time together, this little princess is hungry. I will see you all again later.”

“I hope she soon settles,” Catelyn said meaningfully, and Roslin smiled and nodded before turning for the door again. Arya moved to open it for her, and Roslin thanked her warmly as she made her way out, Arya closing the door firmly behind her once more. “Well there you are, you have met the queen,” Catelyn said in an amused tone as Arya sat back down, “what did you think?”

“She seems nice,” Bran said in a non-committal manner. “She’s pretty,” Rickon added, and Catelyn couldn’t help but laugh slightly. “Nice and pretty,” she repeated with a smile, “I suppose that is high praise indeed to be going along with.”

* * *

The Smalljon was nervous as he waited in the council chambers for the queen to make her appearance. He was trying to find the words to tell her that he had deliberately not implemented a direct order from the King. It was hard to know how she would take it. The queen was strong-willed, everyone knew that, but he had never known her to disobey the King. At least not publically. He took a breath as he poured two cups of wine, trying not to think that he had made a mistake by waiting. Perhaps he should just have done what he had been told. If the queen agreed with what the King had ordered then she would likely not be very impressed with him. His father had told him to make a good impression on her, that he would perhaps be considered for council during peace time if he did.

The door opened behind him, pulling him from his ever confusing thoughts. He turned, seeing the queen send him a smile as she closed the door behind her. At once, he bowed to her. “My queen,” he greeted, and she inclined her head in turn to him, before moving further into the room. “My apologies, the princess took longer to settle than I anticipated,” she said as she moved around, taking in her new surroundings before taking a seat at the long table. She hadn’t sat at the head of it, which he was glad of, he was already feeling intimidated enough. “It is no matter,” he spoke up again when she was settled, “would you care for some wine, my queen?”

“Thank you,” she smiled. She seemed relaxed and happy, really he could not want her to be in a better mood. If she had seemed irritable then he would likely be a thousand times more daunted at the prospect of what he had to tell her. He set one of the cups of wine down before her, and she thanked him again. With that he moved round the table to take the seat directly opposite her, taking a sip of wine before meeting her eyes. They were fixed on him, her expression expectant. “It appears much work has already begun,” she commented, raising one brow.

“Indeed, my queen,” he agreed with her, “I was keen to have work begin right away. The people have suffered enough in our absence, and I thought that the sooner normality was restored, the better. There will be much to worry about in the coming months without all the building work still to be done.”

The queen nodded her head at that, and his stomach relaxed a little. “What of the Dreadfort?” she asked after taking a sip of wine, and his stomach tightened again. “The King instructed me to send men to begin the demolition, I have done so,” he informed her, and again she nodded, her finger absently tracing along the rim of her cup. “What of the smallfolk, the town and the villages?” she asked him expectantly.

“I have given instruction that they are not to be touched,” he told her, “it is Bolton’s seat that will be removed, nothing else.” She nodded once more, raising her cup to her lips and taking a drink before turning her attention to him again. “Well then, it appears there is one less thing for me to concern myself with,” she smiled at him, “unless there is anything else?”

This was it. He had to tell her now. She was implicitly asking him if there was anything else she should know about the Dreadfort. He steeled himself, waiting for her serene demeanour to harden before his eyes. “The King gave another instruction,” he told her sheepishly, “but I confess, my queen, that I was uncomfortable ordering it done. I mentioned it to your brother,” he didn’t like to bring Olyvar into it, but the queen’s stare was making him feel like a naughty child. “And, he seemed of the opinion that I ought to wait for your arrival before giving any orders.”

“What was the King’s instruction?” the queen asked him, a frown setting deep into her forehead. “He ordered any man found wearing the Bolton sigil or bearing their banners be executed,” he told her, trying not to cringe back as her brows shot up towards her hairline. “He ordered what?!” her reaction almost made him jump, but in the next instant he was relaxing in his seat. The queen looked furious, but the Smalljon knew it was not him she was angry with, but the King. “My father had grave news for him,” the Smalljon immediately set about trying to defend him, “Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik were both killed here. I believe he may have given the order in haste, without thinking clearly.”

The queen’s expression softened at that, and he took a relieved breath. Olyvar had been right, telling her had been the best course of action. Hopefully she would be able to persuade the King that this was not the right thing to do. He knew damn well that the King did not want to rule by fear, and this order would instil just that. “You will forget that particular instruction,” the queen’s voice drew his attention again, “did you speak of this to anyone other than Olyvar?”

“No, my queen,” he answered her at once, and she looked relieved. “Good,” she said, her voice confirming her relief, “Robb is grieving, angry. He would not have given this order in his right mind, he wants the Boltons and their name erased from the North, but not like this. You will forget what he ordered, and I will make sure he forgets it too.”

“Thank you, my queen,” the Smalljon told her, his own voice laced with relief. She smiled at him in return, and he was hopeful that he had earned himself some respect from her. “Has Robb given any other instruction I should know about?” she asked him, her eyes boring into him. He couldn’t lie, and the King had told him that he was to obey his queen as he did him. “He wants Bolton’s bastard executed,” he informed her, and she nodded, “I will do that myself.”

“He also ordered the Dreadfort searched for Theon Greyjoy before it is torn down,” the Smalljon continued, and again she nodded. “Aside from that, there was nothing from him, my queen. I was instructed to wait until your arrival.”

“Has anything happened that I ought to know about before I begin trying to restore some kind of order?” she asked him, and for the first time he thought he saw a hint of apprehension and vulnerability in her eyes. It was gone in a flash though, and he wondered if he had imagined it. “We have word that Stannis has left the Wall, likely he will be moving south again, though whether he will trouble us or not I cannot know,” he told her.

“Does he have the men to trouble us?” she asked him, and he shook his head. “No, my queen,” he assured her, “and the repairs to the walls are well underway. Winterfell will be fully protected by the time he gets anywhere near us.”

“The King’s brother, Jon, has been given leave from the Wall,” the Smalljon continued when she showed no sign of speaking up again, “if he has made unhindered progress then he will likely arrive in the next few days.”

“I wonder what is so important about that letter,” the queen mused, and the Smalljon had to agree that the contents had been intriguing him more than a little bit. “I suppose we will soon find out,” he said, and she nodded, her attention back on him and a smile on her face. “I suppose we will,” she agreed, “now, is that all?”

“Most things,” he said, “there is still the matter of rebuilding the household. Given our losses, we will need to appoint a new Maester, Master-at-Arms and steward, and there will likely be need for more servants as well.”

“Very well,” the queen said, “I shall look into it tomorrow, it appears as though my first day will be rather eventful. Would you join me in court, my lord?” The Smalljon nodded at once, her wish to have him with her as she held court was enough for him to know she wasn’t quietly angry with him for disobeying the King. In fact, he would wager the opposite was true. “Of course,” he voiced his agreement, “it would be an honour, my queen.”


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos, much appreciated!
> 
> There was a question about Sansa learning to become queen. All I can say to that is, in time she will look more and more to Roslin, but Sansa is never likely to have to be as "hands on" as Roslin is, if you know what I mean. Roslin is having to take on far more duties than a queen usually would, in effect she's doing her duty, and Robb's, until he can come home. Sansa would never have to take on that much. Hope that answers the question!
> 
> Right guys, hope you enjoy the new chapter.
> 
> :)

* * *

Aegon pulled on the reins of his horse, moving himself closer to Robb’s side as they continued on down the road to Stokeworth. There were guards surrounding them, but they were far enough away that Aegon was confident of not being overheard, provided they keep their voices lowered. Robb turned his head as he moved closer, a ghost of a smile coming to his lips. He had been quiet these last days, just waiting for word that his family had reached Winterfell. Aegon was waiting for it too, needing to know that Sansa was safe. He was missing her more than he had prepared himself for, and thinking of seeing her again was making him ever more determined to reach the Capitol quickly.

“Something on your mind?” Robb asked after a few moments of quiet, and Aegon nodded his head. “I know what I said, about being patient, but do you think there is any way we can have this done with quickly?” Aegon asked him, and Robb smiled wryly in response. “If you think I knew of a way, do you not think I would be doing it?” Robb raised a brow. “Believe me, I want nothing more than to go home and be with my family again. If I could finish this tomorrow, I would.”

“I know,” Aegon said heavily. He should have known there would be no way around it, but the thought of laying siege to the Capitol for months on end was not appealing. “The Lannisters are weak,” Robb told him, “they may have gold and men, but their King is a child who many believe to be a bastard of incest. Their real strength comes from the Tyrells. With Tywin dead, well…if they deserted them, I am not sure how many would raise arms in defence of the city.”

“Do you think they would?” Aegon asked him hopefully, and again, Robb sighed. “Even if they would, I would not trust them. If we were to ask them for aid, they would expect something in return. The last thing you need is to be in their debt. Trust me, Aegon, they are no better than sell-swords, and they would desert you the moment a better offer came along,” Robb told him firmly, and Aegon nodded his head.

“It seems there are not many places I can put my trust,” he said, “once you and your lords are gone, I mean,” he added quickly, and Robb chuckled. “You will work it out eventually,” Robb said, “believe me, sometimes you have to learn the hard way.” His last words were dark, and Aegon nodded, remembering the betrayal of one of his liege lords. Hopefully Aegon would not have to learn his lesson quite as hard as Robb had done. “Sansa thinks I should bring Tyrion Lannister back from exile once I seat the throne,” Aegon spoke after another moment of silence.

“Interesting,” Robb raised a brow, “you might want to consider how that would look, having her former husband so close at hand. People talk, and it isn’t always favourable.” Aegon grimaced at that. He knew that Sansa did not have any romantic attachment to her first husband, and was almost certain that Tyrion had none for her. Robb was right though, it would not stop people from talking, and he did not want Sansa to be the subject of such foul rumour. “If he were to be Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, he would be nowhere near the Capitol,” Aegon reasoned, and Robb nodded. “True enough,” he agreed, “but can you trust him?”

“Sansa thinks I can, and I trust her,” Aegon answered him, and again he nodded slowly. “Have you had anything from Varys?” Robb asked him lowly, glancing around to make sure that no one was paying them any mind. Aegon shook his head. “Not yet,” he answered. “Do you think Dorne would be willing to listen? To believe me?”

“You have an army at your back, and the wealth of Casterly Rock at your disposal. They’ll listen, whether they believe you or not is another matter,” Robb said wryly, and Aegon couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “They will be part of the southern kingdoms no matter what if I take the throne,” Aegon nodded determinedly, “and I can take it without them, can’t I?”

“Of course,” Robb replied, “they are weak. Without Tywin they are in disarray, though we ought not to underestimate the experience of Kevan. Believe me, it will not be Tommen pulling the strings at the Capitol.”

“Dorne have the girl, don’t they?” Aegon asked, remembering Sansa telling him about her being shipped away whilst Tyrion was Hand. “They do,” Robb confirmed, “all the more reason for you to get them onside. It will give us something to bargain with.”

Aegon didn’t like the thought of bartering with the life of a child, but what choice did he have? Robb was right, if Dorne joined him then the Princess Myrcella would be his prisoner by extension. Perhaps that would be enough to give the Lannisters at the Capitol pause for thought. “What do you intend to do with the Lannister bastards?” Robb asked him, and he shrugged his shoulder. He had not given much thought to the little puppets. “What would you do?” he asked his good-brother.

“Show the mercy they did not show to your family,” Robb said darkly, and Aegon swallowed hard. “I once swore to kill them all,” he continued on, “but I remember those children from Winterfell. Joffrey was an evil bastard, even then we could tell. The other two though, they were not made the same. I would have them taken as wards by a family you can trust. After that, when they come of age, what you do with them is up to you. Marry them into houses that are sworn to you, or have Tommen sent to the Wall and Myrcella to the Silent Sisters.”

“But you wouldn’t kill them?” Aegon asked him, turning his head so he could meet his eyes. Robb shook his own. “I would have killed Joffrey a thousand times over. But, no, I wouldn’t touch them,” he confirmed, and Aegon nodded his own head. He only hoped that by showing mercy he would not be perceived as weak. Still, he would have the Kingslayer, and his sister, and the monster, Clegane. Their end would show the people that he was not weak. Their end would be justice. For his mother. His sister. The unnamed boy. For himself, even.

“Did your men ever find the Mountain?” he asked Robb, thoughts of Clegane now troubling his mind. “No,” Robb grimaced, “he burned his way across the Riverlands and left pain and destruction in his wake. Where he is now, we don’t know. Word is he fled when he heard we had left the Rock. My only guess is he has returned to his own castle, or retreated to the Capitol. The Lannisters may well have need of him now they are in such a weak position.”

“If he is at the Capitol, all the better,” Aegon said through gritted teeth. “You would be fool to meet him in the field, or in any combat,” Robb said warningly, “there is no point in us doing this if you get yourself crushed in some quest for revenge."

“Did you not swear to stamp out the Lannisters? You cannot speak to me of revenge, not when I know what you are doing to the Dreadfort,” Aegon said heatedly, and Robb pulled his horse closer to him, lowering his voice so there was no chance of them being overhead. “Yes, I will take my revenge,” Robb hissed, “because the lord who betrayed me is dead, and I would not have his name uttered again. By all means, wipe all trace of Clegane from this world as I will the name Bolton, but do _not_ make the mistake of thinking you can defeat him in combat. You _can’t,_ no one can. I doubt even the Kingslayer could best him. It will take a dozen men or more to even restrain him, and when he is in chains you can do as you will with him. You can avenge you mother and sister without getting yourself killed, believe me, you will enjoy it more that way.”

* * *

Roslin had never felt as nervous in her life as she did at this moment. Not even when she had walked into the Sept at Riverrun to marry Robb. At least then she had had Olyvar’s arm to cling to when it had all become too much for her. Right now she was alone, and struggling to breathe evenly as she walked up the middle of hall towards the raised throne that was waiting for her. She could feel the eyes of those gathered on her. Feel them silently judging her, no doubt wondering whether they could really trust her to look after Winterfell properly in Robb’s absence. It had seemed so easy at the time, to promise her husband that she would make everything alright again. Now her crown was weighing more heavily than ever before, and she was terrified of doing the wrong thing.

When she reached the base of the throne she took a deep breath, her eyes flickering from side to side, but not catching sight of any familiar face. Olyvar had promised to be here, and Ser Damon and the Smalljon had followed her into the hall. She had hoped that perhaps Catelyn would come. Perhaps she had, perhaps she was just lost in the sea of people. It seemed that everyone in Winterfell had come to watch her hold court for the first time. As she took the few steps up to the throne she wondered if they all had something to ask of her, or if they were just here to judge her performance. She let out another shaky breath as she lowered herself onto the throne and tried to look as unaffected and relaxed as possible. If they knew she was nervous they would likely lose faith in her before she had even opened her mouth.

“Good people of Winterfell,” she began, “it is an honour to finally be in your presence. I know that in the absence of your lord and king that there has been much suffering. There is much that needs to be put right, and I intend to do everything in my power to see it done swiftly. While the King is in the south, ensuring that our borders are safe and a king we can trust will seat the Iron Throne, you can turn to me with your needs. I am sure there are many, and I will do all I can to ease the burden, though I know there are some wrongs that cannot be made right, no matter how I wish they could be. Please, do not hesitate to come forward, I will hear you. I will hear whoever would speak.”

Silence followed her words, and she swallowed hard, her eyes darting the hall, just waiting for someone to be the first to step forwards. Just as she was beginning to think that no one would, a man stepped out from the middle of the crowd. He was clad in the armour she had seen the guards wear, his helm tucked under his arm. When he reached the base of the throne, he bowed lowly to you. “My queen,” he kept his head bowed, “we are honoured too by your presence. I wish I were not the one to add more burden to you, but I must speak.”

“Please, rise, and speak,” Roslin invited him kindly, and he straightened up, lifting his head so he could meet her eyes. “Jorgan, our head of the prison guard, was gravely injured during the invasion of the Bolton army, my queen,” he reported to her, “he was taken by the Gods sometime in the night, to join many others who gave their lives to defend our great home. I am loath to speak of this when his body is not yet cold, but since Winterfell has returned to rightful hands, we have an abundance of prisoners. We need more men to keep order, my queen, our cells are full and our men are stretched. We have no leadership, and not enough men to carry out even the simplest of tasks. It is our duty to ensure that the prison is secure, but I confess, without the men, I do not think we can continue to do it.”

“Of course,” Roslin nodded her head at once, “I am sorry to hear of Jorgan’s death, and if you would be so kind as to relay my sincerest sympathies to his family, I would be most grateful.” Roslin paused then, as the man bowed his head in agreement, before meeting her eyes once more. “The safety of Winterfell and its people is of utmost importance,” she continued, “of course I will see it done that a new head of the prison guard is found. It will then fall to him to choose men of his choosing to ensure the prison is secure. You have my word, this will be done swiftly. Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention.”

“Thank you, my queen, you are most gracious,” the man bowed lowly before her again, before backing away, moving to resume his place in the crowd. Roslin took a breath, she could see some of the people towards the back of the hall whispering to one another, their eyes flickering to her every few moments. Gods, she hoped they were whispering favourably. She could not see how restoring the prison guard to its former status could be seen as a bad thing. Ever so slightly, she adjusted herself in the throne, bringing a smile to her face as a young woman came forward. She appeared to be shaking slightly as she curtseyed before her, and Roslin sent her the warmest smile she could muster as she rose up again. “What is your name?” Roslin asked her kindly after she had opened and closed her mouth several times.

“Efra, my queen,” the woman told her, her voice barely more than a whisper. “What is it you have come to ask, Efra?” Roslin asked her softly, quickly descending the throne as the young woman positively began to quake. Ser Damon was behind her in an instant as she approached Efra, but Roslin could sense no danger from her. “Do not be afraid,” Roslin murmured when she was before her, “you have suffered much, I can see it. Won’t you please tell me how I can help you?”

Efra raised her head, tears trickling silently down her cheeks. “I know I am not the only one,” her voice was barely more than a whisper, “but no one else will speak of our misfortune. I lost my husband, I am left alone with a small child barely able to feed or clothe her, let alone myself. We cannot afford to heat our home, nor pay our taxes. If it continues then we will be driven out, all because my husband went to war and lost his life. He fought for the King, he was proud to do so, but now he has gone, and we have nothing. I hate to beg, my queen, but I have no other choice.”

She choked on a sob at the end, and Roslin took a deep, calming breath. There had to be something she could do. She bit down on her lip. The crown was not a charity, she could not just give this woman money, or everyone would want some. There had to be some way she could help the poor widows of the war, without it seeming as though she was too soft. Her mind raced, spinning through all the problems she already had, wondering if any of them could be solved by helping this woman. It came to her in a moment, one shining moment, and she felt so relieved that she could have laughed. As it was, she smiled widely, finally believing that she _could_ do this without Robb.

“The war has taken much,” Roslin said, “and I am truly sorry for your loss. It is no doubt hard enough for you, without worrying about how you will next manage to eat. I cannot offer you charity, Efra, but I can offer you work. You, and any other in your situation, you can earn honest coin for honest work. We have several positions in the keep, kitchen maids and laundry maids, household help. There is also need for skilled seamstresses. There is much here that needs to be done, to make Winterfell your home again. I am offering you a chance to help achieve that, and to earn coin to feed yourselves and your families in the process. I will see all those widowed women in need here tomorrow, and I will personally find positions here for as many of you as I can. If there are those I cannot take, I promise to help you find something elsewhere.”

“Thank you,” Efra looked on the verge of collapse, gratitude shining in her eyes. Her call was taken up by several other women, and Roslin couldn’t help but smile. “You are most welcome,” she met Efra’s eyes so the young woman knew she meant it. “Tomorrow,” she raised her voice slightly, “come to me here, and we will find the right positions for you.”

“I’ll be here, my queen, thank you so much,” Efra dropped down into a curtsey again, and Roslin inclined her head to her, smiling once more. She made her way back to the throne then, Ser Damon clanking back to his place at her side, and Efra melting back into the crowd. Roslin felt far more relaxed now, as she looked around the hall and saw that many of the faces looking back at her were now wearing happier expressions. The slight hostility that she had felt before seemed to have melted somewhat, and she took a deep breath of relief.

* * *

The men were packing up around them when someone approached with a letter in hand. Robb turned his attention to them at once, silently praying that the letter was for him. He had not received word from Roslin since she had been at the Twins, and he had hoped to have heard they had arrived at Winterfell by now. “A letter, your Grace,” the man held it out to him, and Robb almost snatched it from his grasp, his thanks distracted. He practically tore open the letter as soon as he saw it was sealed with a direwolf, his heart beginning to beat at a more rational speed as he recognised his wife’s dainty script filling the page. She had written much, and he smiled as she relayed news of their safe arrival.

_Everyone is perfectly well, though glad that our journey had finally ended. I have finally met Bran and Rickon, they appear in good health and beside themselves that their mother is home. I did not linger long upon meeting them, I thought it only right that they have some time with those they have missed. Besides, I had to settle Bethany, and speak with Olyvar._

His smile dropped slightly as she mentioned his good-brother. He could not imagine the pain that Olyvar must be in. He himself still felt Dacey’s loss, sometimes finding himself looking over his shoulder, expecting her to be there. It could only be a thousand times worse for the man who had loved her. The thought of ever being without Roslin… He shook his head, never did he want to dwell on that dark thought. He had had enough of those when he had been stuck abed at the Rock. None of his darker dreams had come to reality. Roslin had survived bringing Bethany into the world, and their daughter was thriving, thank the Gods.

_Olyvar wouldn’t speak much. He claimed to be well, but I know my brother, and I know when he is hiding things from me. I can see the pain in his eyes, but I don’t know what I can do to make it better. Perhaps there is nothing, perhaps only time will heal him. All the same I wish I could do something. Meeting Bethany brought him some cheer, but I know it was bittersweet. She reminded him of mother, and likely reminded him of the future he feels is lost._

Robb sighed. Pity for Olyvar coursed through him. He remembered back so long ago when he had first crossed the Twins. Not only had he been irritated that he had to take a Frey wife, but he also had to take on a squire as well. Thankfully, he and Olyvar had struck up an easy friendship almost at once. He had been glad of that, especially as things had got harder. Around Olyvar he could be himself, relay his fears, be weak for a while where in front of the men he always had to be unyieldingly strong. He wished he could do the same for his good-brother now, but there was nothing to be done about it.

_Bethany settled in the end, I suppose it will take her a little time to get used to being somewhere new. Once she was sleeping and with her nurses I spoke with the Smalljon. He had much news for me, though he also told me what you had ordered him with regard to Bolton._

His smile really did drop then, and he swallowed hard, steeling himself for her next words.

_I won’t ask what you were thinking. I know damn well what you were thinking. By now I can only hope you have rediscovered some sense of poise and rationality. I am sorry for you losses, I am, I know what those men meant to you, but you know punishing the smallfolk this way is not the answer. Thank the Gods the Smalljon waited for me to arrive and did not give the order. I will not give it, Robb, and I hope by now that you can understand why I will not. Bolton’s name will be washed away, I promise you, but not with the blood of innocent men. This isn’t the man you are. You are compassionate, and you care for the smallfolk as you always have. Let me do this without bloodshed, I know I can. I will not let you become a tyrant. I have no desire to be the wife of a tyrant, there is enough for me to do without attending multiple executions._

He couldn’t help but smile again as he came to the end of her tirade about his rash order to the Smalljon. She hadn’t scolded him as badly as he had expected her to, and he could almost hear the exasperated tone of her voice as he had read the words. Of course, she was right. He had been regretting the order almost as soon as he had sent it, but given their limited supply of ravens he had not been able to send a retraction. Thankfully the Smalljon must have known it was an order given in anger and haste, and waited until Roslin arrived instead of blindly implementing it. A lesser lord who did not know him as well would likely have followed his instruction blindly. If Robb had been unsure of who best to aid Roslin before, then he wasn’t any more.

_I will hold court tomorrow, something I never imagined doing, even as queen. I have to confess that I am nervous, that I can feel the weight of my crown even though I have yet to set it atop my head. What the people will ask of me I do not know, but I know they must have suffered, and I will try and make things right. Or, as right as they can be. I will write to you again once it is over with, but for now I suppose I ought to try and sleep. We are in your chambers for now, it’s so strange that I can almost feel you here. Your mother offered the lord and ladies chambers, but I declined. I feel closer to you here, and I will take what comfort I can until your arms can be around me again. I can see the banners from the window, too. Thank you, I had no idea you had had another fashioned, and it was the loveliest sight I could have been greeted with._

_I_ _miss you, Robb, and I pray you stay safe and come home to us soon. We love you, always._

Robb exhaled slowly as he came to the end of the letter, folding it back up carefully and bringing the seal to his lips for a moment. Gods he missed her. Missed Bethany. He missed all his family, but being without his wife and daughter was hardest of all. He had endured missing the others before, but he had never had to miss Roslin and their baby before. A sigh left him as he stamped through the dismantled camp to where his horse was saddled and ready. He would reply to her when they stopped again for the night. Right now they had to push on, for the Capitol would soon be within their sight.


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the kudos!
> 
> And thank you AngelBells for the comment, Roslin is certainly a very respected woman, glad you like it.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Olyvar caught sight of him as he left the prison, looking rather tired and dishevelled as he led his horse in the direction of the stables. “Jon!” he called out, quickening his pace and heading towards him, as he turned to him, offering a weary smile.

“Olyvar, it’s good to see you again,” Jon returned when he came close enough. “I was so sorry to hear about Dacey.”

Olyvar swallowed hard at that, somehow forcing something that he hoped resembled a smile to his face. “Thank you,” he replied, nodding his head. An awkward silence fell about them for a moment, and Olyvar saw Jon open and close his mouth a few times, as though wondering what best to say next. Before he could think of anything to put him out of his misery, Jon appeared to find his tongue.

“That’s fine new armour you have,” he nodded towards Olyvar’s chest plate, and he nodded.

“Aye,” Olyvar confirmed, “fresh from the smith’s. I’ve taken on the role as head of the prison guard, for the time being at least. Roslin was having trouble finding a replacement, she is still learning who she can trust around here.”

“Most people here are trustworthy enough,” Jon said, his tone slightly colder than before.

“I know,” Olyvar said quickly, “but after everything that’s already happened, after what Bolton did to the King. Well, you cannot blame her for being cautious. I needed something to keep me occupied, and my sister needed eyes and ears she can trust. Likely it will not be forever, but I can’t just be here and do nothing.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound that way,” Jon apologised, “it has been a long journey, and it’s strange being here again, especially with everything that’s gone on.”

“Things are slowly rebuilding,” Olyvar assured him, and he nodded. “I know you must be tired, I can accompany you into the keep if you want? Roslin wanted to know as soon as you arrived, but if you want to delay meeting her so you can rest then I know she won’t be offended.”

“No,” Jon shook his head, “no, I want to meet her, and it would be bad manners indeed to put off the queen. Is it with her? This letter?”

Olyvar swallowed hard at mention of the letter. It was craven of him, but he had relayed all his and Jojen’s suspicions to Roslin in the hopes that she would deal with it all. His sister was always far better at explaining things and making positives out of negatives than he had ever been. “Aye,” he spoke, seeing Jon looking at him expectantly, “I do believe Lord Bran gave it over to her.”

“And he got it from Lord Reed?” Jon asked him as he handed the reins of his horse over to one of the stable boys with thanks. Olyvar nodded in response, and they fell into step as they made their way to the steps of the keep. “Is it really from my father?” Jon asked next, and Olyvar took a deep breath.

“I believe it is from Lord Stark, yes,” he confirmed, chancing a side glance at the younger man, and seeing his expression part troubled and part longing. Olyvar was even more glad now that he had chosen to leave Roslin to deal with this. He still felt bad, knowing how much pressure his sister was already under, but she had decided to speak with Jon herself, and he had said nothing to dissuade her.

The guards inclined their heads to them as they came through the main doors of the keep, and Olyvar saw a smile come to twitch as Jon’s lips as they entered. “Roslin said you ought to be shown to the smaller parlour when you arrived,” Olyvar told him, “she thought it would be more comfortable after your journey than the council chambers. Though, likely that is where she is at this time. I’ll go and fetch her for you, if you want to wait for her there?”

“Of course,” Jon nodded, “I know the way, I’ll gladly wait. Please, tell the queen not to hurry on my account. No doubt she has enough to contend with as it is.”

“No doubt she won’t be long,” Olyvar inclined his head to him before turning on his heel and making his way down the hallways towards the council chambers. Roslin would either be there, or in Lord Stark’s old study. She liked to ponder things in there, for some reason she found it a comforting and peaceful place to think. Olyvar went to the council chambers first, knocking but getting no reply. With that he turned and continued down to the study, again knocking, this time hearing his sister’s call for him to come inside.

He did as he was told, and Roslin looked up from where she was sat behind the desk as he came in. “I do hope there isn’t any trouble down in the prison,” she said in an amused tone, “you have been in your post mere days, I would hate to have to remove you from it.”

“Do you have that little faith in me, sister,” he returned teasingly, and she smiled widely at him. “Everything is fine,” he assured her, “I only came to tell you that Jon has finally arrived. I directed him to the parlour like you said, he said to take your time if you’re otherwise engaged.”

“Just considering what to do with the stone coming from the Dreadfort,” she told him, standing up from the chair and smoothing down her skirts. “Of course, much will come here,” she continued, “but, the Smalljon has suggested sending some down to Moat Cailin, and having seen it on the journey here I quite agree with him. Anyway, I can consider what to do with the rest another time, it will be a long while yet before it is all taken down. I will go and see Jon, how did he seem?”

“Well enough,” Olyvar answered her, “weary from the journey, of course.” She nodded her understanding at that, sliding open the top drawer of the desk and slipping the sealed letter from it. Olyvar eyed it warily, and Roslin looked up, clearly noticing his line of sight. “How will you do it?” he asked her.

“I think, perhaps, I will explain to him what you and Jojen have considered may be in the letter,” Roslin told him, “and then, he can make up his own mind whether he wants to read it or not.”

“We could be completely wrong,” he said, meeting her eyes, and she nodded slowly.

“I know you could,” she said softly.

“You don’t think we are though, do you?” he asked with a raised brow, and she grimaced in response.

* * *

Roslin held tightly to the letter clutched in her hand as she made her way down the hallways towards the parlour where Jon was waiting for her. Since Olyvar had told her what he believed the contents to be she had kept in her possession. Thankfully Bran hadn’t been reluctant to hand it over. In fact, she almost sensed he had been relieved to be rid of it, having had to keep it safe for so long. She had assured him that she would keep it in his father’s study until Jon came back, and he had been perfectly happy with that. Both he and Rickon seemed to be slowly warming to her, Bran perhaps a little more than the youngest Stark child. She was sure Rickon would get there eventually, but for now he still seemed slightly suspicious of her.

She pushed thoughts of the youngest Stark children from her mind as she came upon the door of the parlour. After taking a deep breath, she pushed a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear, before turning the handle and pushing open the door. The occupant was on his feet at once at her entrance, looking tired and perhaps a little apprehensive. She could see his resemblance to Arya almost at once, and she knew that Arya favoured the traditional Stark colouring. Jon had the same grey eyes as well. There was nothing at all within his features to suggest that his father could have been Rhaegar Targaryen. Perhaps Jojen and Olyvar were wrong. Perhaps they had interpreted his green dreams all the wrong way.

“Jon, I presume,” she greeted him with a smile, seeing his features relax a little. He bowed his head, sweeping into a slightly lower bow, before straightening up again.

“My queen,” he returned, and her smile widened.

“Call me Roslin,” she insisted, “and, please, sit.” She gestured to the sofa where he had been seated on her arrival, and he hesitantly moved to retake his place. Roslin made her way to the side table, seeing that Efra had refilled the wine flagon and supplied fresh cups as she had asked her to. She took two of them, filling the almost to the brim. If this letter did contain what she feared, then she had a feeling that both she and Jon would have need of it.

“Thank you,” Jon smiled slightly at her as she outstretched one of the cups to him.

“You’re most welcome,” she responded, taking a sip from her own cup to calm her nerves, before she moved to take a seat on the other sofa, facing Jon. He still looked nervous when she glanced at him again, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Roslin saw his eyes slide from her to the letter that she still had secure in her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, after everything that Robb has told me,” she said, not quite ready to address the reason he was here just yet.

“Thank you,” Jon nodded, “it is a pleasure to meet you too, and, I must congratulate you on the birth of the princess. You and Robb must have been thrilled.”

“We were, still are,” she smiled widely, and his stance seemed to relax even further. “You will have to meet her later on,” she continued, “Robb was hoping that, in his absence, you would consent to laying her before the weirwood. He wants her blessed by the Gods sooner rather than later, and given the unsettled times in which we are living, I cannot disagree with him.”

“I would be honoured,” Jon said at once, his sincerity almost enough to choke her.

“Thank you,” she returned, swallowing hard. Would Jon still agree to it when he discovered the content of the letter? Robb would still want him to, she was almost certain of it. Her heart clenched as she thought of him. She had not dared write word of what Jojen and Olyvar imagined to be in the letter from his father. There was still a chance that they were completely wrong, and until anything was known for certain she had refused to break her husband’s heart.

“Are you alright?” Jon was looking at her concernedly, and she nodded her head, her fingers playing with the edges of the parchment as she moved the letter into her lap. After a deep breath she looked up to meet his eyes. They were so unmistakably Stark. The dream must be wrong. Surely?

“This is yours,” she told him, glancing down at the letter for a moment. “But, before I give it to you, would you listen to me a moment?”

“Of course,” he nodded at once, concern still etched across his features. She took a final, deep breath.

“Jojen Reed has greensight,” she informed him, and again he nodded. “He has had dreams that he is certain are linked to you, to what may be in this letter,” she continued, “dreams that he could not quite make sense of before, but that with Olyvar’s help, he thinks he may have interpreted. He could be wrong, Jon, please try and remember that.”

“What was the dream?” Jon looked confused now, and ever so slightly afraid.

“Ten spectres guard a tower, more specifically, they guard a secret, held within the tower,” she told him, trying to remember exactly what Olyvar had told her. “The tower is linked to dragons and wolves, and you,” she took a breath, “how exactly, I don’t know, but that is what Jojen has seen.”

“I don’t understand,” he said slowly, shaking his head.

“You never knew the name of your mother,” Roslin said shakily, really not looking forward to the words she would speak next as Jon shook his head. “It was a secret,” she continued, “but what if it was not the only one?”

“I still don’t understand,” he looked almost despairing now, and she closed her eyes for a moment.

“Ten men were at the Tower of Joy when Lord Stark found his sister, Lyanna,” she said, “you know that, likely you know it better than I. Two came away alive, though they now rest with the Gods as well. Ten men. Ten spectres. Do you see?”

Jon nodded in response, and she took another deep breath. “Wolves, dragons, you,” she spoke each word slowly but firmly, and he stared at her. “They were guarding a secret,” she whispered, “what if it was Lyanna’s secret? What if it was -?”

“Me,” he cut her off, the word uttered disbelievingly. She nodded in response, and he sat back against the sofa, his hands coming up to his mouth and his eyes wide. Slowly they moved from her face to the letter still resting in her lap. After a moment he moved his hands from his mouth, nodding his head slightly. “Can I have my letter, please?” he asked softly, and she held it out at once.

“You don’t have to,” she reminded him, and he shook his head at once.

“You have just told me that the little I have known about myself could be a lie,” he was starting to sound more impatient now. “Would you give me my letter, please?”

Roslin handed it over to him without another word, her eyes fixed on him as he turned the parchment over in his hands. His fingers whispered at the seal, and she bit her lip as he finally broke it, slowly unfolding the letter. It seemed as though she held her breath as he read through it, her eyes still on him as his own roved back and forth across the parchment. Roslin saw his already pale features blanch even further as he continued, and she swallowed hard. It was selfish to think of anyone but Jon right now, but she couldn’t help thinking of how this would harm the rest of the family. What a blow it would be for them. What a blow it would be for Robb. He had taken too many hits already, and he would have to bear this one without her at his side. Gods she wished she could be with him.

“It’s true,” Jon said simply, pulling her away from her ever despairing thoughts of her husband. She met Jon’s eyes, not knowing at all what she was seeing in them. Acceptance? Anger? These were not eyes she was familiar with, nor ones she could easily read. “Rhaegar Targaryen is my father,” Jon said icily. “Lyanna Stark is my mother,” he continued, “as if she did not suffer enough at his hands, I had to finish her off.”

“Jon, you can’t –,” she began.

“He raped her!” he snapped, and she flinched. “He took her, and he raped her. The stories always said it was him, that _he_ killed her. But it wasn’t him, was it?! It was me! Lord Stark should have just left me there to die, the Gods only know why he did not.”

“Stop it,” Roslin said lowly, “stop this now. It matters not how you came to be, your mother must have loved you, Jon.” He snorted disbelieving at that, and she leant forwards and grabbed hold of both his hands, forcing him to look at her. “I had a cousin,” she told him, “well, I have hundreds of cousins, but this one, she lived at the Twins. Spirited, vivacious, some would even say flighty. At least she was, until she went out to meet a suitor in the dead of night and was set upon by another man. Animal, I should say.”

“She was quiet after that,” Roslin continued after a pause, “she kept herself to her rooms and would barely talk. I never knew her well, she was older than I was, and when it happened I was too young to really understand it. But I did understand when her belly began to swell. I heard all the whispers, they wondered how she could stand to have that child inside her. But she, she found something to make her smile again, and it was that baby. When her son was born, she would not allow any other to care for him. She did it all herself, she had him with her, always, doting on him. It didn’t matter to her how that boy was gotten on her, she _loved_ him. She loves him still, with everything she has.”

“Is that true?” Jon sounded half dismissive, and half hopeful.

“I’m not a liar, Jon,” she told him firmly, and he nodded his acceptance. “Your mother must have loved you,” she said quietly, “she must have told Lord Stark so, else perhaps he would have just left you there to die. He kept you, and he kept his sister’s secret so you would be kept safe from King Robert. So no one would know who your true father was. This was done to protect you, Jon, please tell me that you see that.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked, ignoring her.

“What do _you_ want to do now?” she asked in return, meeting his conflicted gaze.

“Part of me wants to rip this to shreds and burn it, pretend I never laid eyes on it,” he told her, clenching his fist around the parchment. “But how can I run from it? How can I pretend I have never seen it when it changes so much about me? When I have a brother out there?”

“You have three brothers already,” Roslin reminded him, and he dropped his head into his hands.

“How am I supposed to tell them?” his voice was muffled. “What do I say to them all, when they are all so happy to be home? I cannot even think of Robb, or…or…Aegon.” He finally got out the name, and Roslin was at a loss of what to say. Jon raised his head from his hands again, meeting her eyes with a desperate look about him. “Tell me what to do!” he implored her in an agonised tone.

“Can you live with burying this?” she asked, and he considered her for a long moment before slowly shaking his head. “Then you need to tell the family,” she told him firmly, “and then you need to go south. You need to go to Robb. We cannot trust this with a raven, if it were to fall into the wrong hands we would be in even more danger. It is bad enough they know that one Targaryen is on the loose in Westeros, at least Aegon has an army to defend him. Best no one knows about you, until you are safe with them too.”

“How can you be so…so… _rational_?” Jon asked her disbelievingly.

“I’m Robb’s wife,” she told him wryly, “if I had not learned to be rational then we would all be dead by now. Robb is brilliant at what he does best – winning battles,” she quirked a brow, “but I had to learn how to keep hold of two kingdoms, not to mention the Westerlands, when he was laying injured. I had to _be_ rational, because at times Robb is the opposite, and I’m sure you know as well as I do that he hides a temper behind his usual calm.”

“Aye,” Jon nodded with a half-smile, “even as children he could go from happy and smiling one moment, to a fit of temper in the next. I don’t envy you having to put up with it, I imagine it has only grown worse since he marched south.”

“He has had a lot put on his shoulders,” Roslin replied, “more than he ever asked for. Through all the bad things he is still the same man at heart, though perhaps he would appear hardened at first glance. One look at him with Bethany would remind you he is still the same as he ever was.”

“But she won’t be there when he finds out the truth about me,” Jon said wryly, and she grimaced.

“You’re still his brother,” she said after a moment, “he will remember that.”

“When?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“I don’t know that, Jon, it would be cruel of me to promise you how he will react,” she said. “But, I can promise you that I will do all in my power to make him see reason, even if all I can do is write down my words and hope he heeds them. He will not be angry with you, if anything, he will be angry for you. This is such a cruel thing to have come about, especially since Lord Stark has passed and cannot explain everything to you properly. There will be more to it than that letter written in haste, if I know nothing else for certain then I know that.”

“What about Aegon?” Jon asked him. “What in the name of the Gods is he going to think of this? Suddenly he discovers he has a brother, a _rival._ Do you really think he will welcome me with open arms?! I’m a threat, Roslin, and you and I both know it.”

“You will show him you are no rival,” she told him insistently, “Jon, you don’t want the Iron Throne any more than Robb does. He will see that, perhaps not at first, but he will see it. Even if it takes a little time, Robb is hardly going to allow him to take your head.”

“I almost wish I hadn’t opened that letter,” he said bitterly. “What has it brought me? I now know who my mother is, but she’s dead. Long dead. Not only that, but the man I called father was never mine to name as such. My _father,_ ” he almost spat the word, “was dead before I even entered the world.”

“But you did open it,” Roslin said firmly, “and you will face what is inside. You have no choice now, not now that you know the truth. I don’t doubt it will be difficult, but try not to see it as though you have lost something. All the Starks are still your family and that will never change. Only now you have more family, you have a brother. Aegon is a decent man, and he has grown his whole life believing he was alone in the world. He has no one besides an aunt who is more likely to wage war on him than unite in kinship with him. He might not know it right now, but he needs you, Jon, and perhaps you might just need him too.”

“I still don’t know how you can be so calm,” he muttered distractedly, his leg bouncing up and down. From the look on his face Roslin could tell he was thinking of a dozen or more things all at once, and so she decided against speaking again for the moment. Instead she cast her mind over what she could possibly write to Robb to console him and urge calm. He would be devastated, Jon was his best friend as well as his brother, and he would never speak of him with anything other than fondness. This would be hard for him to take, no doubt hard for all the Starks to take.

She thought of Catelyn before she could help herself. Robb had told her many times that his mother had never been able to treat Jon like her own child. How he could see it in her eyes sometimes that she resented Jon’s mere presence because it reminded her of her husband’s betrayal. She wondered if her good-mother would have been able to love him as a son if she had known the truth. If she had known that he husband had never betrayed her, could she have loved Jon as her husband’s nephew? By the Gods, there were so many alternatives to consider, but it was no good. It was too late. There was no changing the past or undoing the lie Lord Stark had told. She sighed heavily, almost at the same moment that Jon rose up to his feet. “Where are you going?” she asked him fearfully.

“I need some time to think,” he told her, shaking his head, “I need to…I need to visit the crypts. I will come back, I promise, but please, would you just leave me a while? I just need to think, please.”

“Of course,” Roslin nodded her understanding, “you just come back when you’re ready, I will make some excuse for your absence should anyone ask.”

“Thank you,” he nodded curtly, “really, thank you. I fear I might have lost my head if you were not here to speak sense to me.”

“It was nothing,” she said, “you’re family, Jon, and you always will be.”

 


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Thanks all for the kudos, and thanks for the comments, a few almost made me blush! 
> 
> In answer to one question that came up, yes there probably will be an Arya/Jon POV. I'm not planning on adding an Arya POV, but I am adding a Jon one, so it will likely be from his perspective. But it won't be in this chapter, there are other matters to attend to...
> 
> Anyway, hope you all enjoy!
> 
> :)

* * *

Thankfully, Jon hadn’t seen anyone as he rushed out of the keeps and towards the crypts. He didn’t think he would be able to face the family again, though he had so been looking forward to it before. It had been all he could think about on the journey. Seeing Bran awake and alert again with his own eyes. Seeing how much Rickon had no doubt grown in the time they had been apart. Seeing Arya. He swallowed hard. Besides Robb she was the one he was closest to. They had somehow bonded together over their shared colouring. Jon wasn’t stupid, he knew that he and Arya looked more like a true brother and sister. It was something else that Lady Stark had despised him for. He wondered how she would take the news that he disdain had been misplaced all these years.

Reaching the crypts, he eased one of the flickering torches from the bracket just inside the door before setting off slowly on his way. Now he was inside he had no particular desire to reach his destination quickly. His mind wandered to all the other times he had been down here. It was always as part of some game. Sometimes they would hide down here during a game, usually when it was Sansa’s turn to look for them, as she never liked entering the crypts. Other times they would dare one another to see how far into the crypts they could go without getting scared and turning back. Lord Stark had always taught them that there was nothing to fear from the dead. Jon had seen since with his own eyes, that that could not be further from the truth.

Perhaps he should have stayed at the keep a little longer and warned Roslin about the walkers. He bit his lip, hesitating for a moment, before he remembered that he had told Olyvar, and that he had most likely relayed the news to his sister. Then again, Olyvar was a man grieving, and perhaps the brief conversation had been erased from his mind. Again, Jon hesitated, his footsteps faltering as he came to the end of the Stark Kings. All those to follow would bear the title of Lord, until time came for Robb and his descendants to lay at rest here. Jon shuddered. He would not think such a thing, not while his brother was still fighting a war.

He shook his head slightly, wondering if he should still refer to Robb as his brother in his mind. It was true that he still loved him the same, considered him a brother. He could only hope that Robb’s own feelings would not change when he discovered the truth. While Robb was caring and compassionate more often than not, there was something of an unpredictability about him. Jon supposed that was just the way the famed wolfs blood had manifested itself in him. It wasn’t obvious, not as Arya’s clearly was. She was almost more wolf than girl, and Jon had heard it said on more than one occasion that she was very like her Aunt Lyanna. His mother. He swallowed hard.

He couldn’t turn back now, she was waiting for him, right at the end of the crypts with nothing but empty alcoves beyond her. Morbidly he wondered what would happen when all the space ran out. Would the tradition die? Would the Kings of Winter be buried elsewhere? Or would some King or another in hundreds of years expand beneath Winterfell and build more crypts and alcoves to bury the future dead in? Before he could stop himself he was imagining endless tunnels, a whole city of the dead built beneath the place he had called home. He shook his head, forcing his feet to move forwards. He could warn Roslin later, if she did not already know, a few more hours would make no difference.

Likely he was imagining it, but he couldn’t help but feel that his footsteps began to echo more loudly the further down the tunnel he went. He also couldn’t help but feel as though someone was watching him. His pace slowed again, and he moved his hand to the hilt of his sword before outstretching the torch he had in the other hand, and moving slowly in a circle. There was nothing. Just stone effigies. Gods, his mind was playing tricks on him. He wished he had brought Ghost down with him, but his wolf had bounded off into the wolfswood as soon as the gates of Winterfell had loomed up against him. Jon couldn’t begrudge him a few hours of hunting after he had stuck almost constantly to his side on the journey from the Wall.

Jon set off for the final time, only slowing his pace again when he reached Rickard Stark. At least not everything had changed. This man had still been his grandfather, and the man next to him had still been his Uncle Brandon. He swallowed hard, thinking of Brandon made him think of Benjen, and there had still been no word from him. It had been so long now. Jon was still desperate to cling to the hope that he was alive, but he had been out there beyond the Wall, and he could not understand how anyone could survive as long as Benjen would have had to. There would be no crypt for him. Nor any burial. He would lie where he fell, and if the Gods were good he would never rise again. Jon shuddered, the image of his uncle with glowing blue eyes now burning behind his eyes.

He shook his head, barely sparing Brandon a glance as he moved passed him to reach Lyanna. Slowly he raised his eyes to her face, taking in all the carved details. He would like to say it was obvious, but it wasn’t. She was a Stark, just as her brothers were. All Starks had the same look, at least they had until Lord Stark had married into House Tully. Jon vaguely wondered what Robb’s daughter looked like, if she favoured him or Roslin. He would find out later, he promised himself he would go back to the keep and meet her. Somehow he would have to tear himself away from here first. He had dreaded coming down, and yet now he was before her he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from her.

What had she suffered? What had she suffered at the hands of Rhaegar Targaryen? Was stealing her and – his mind stumbled over the word – _hurting_ her not enough? He had forced a child on her, and she had been forced to carry it. Carry _him._ Gods. Jon closed his eyes for a moment, unable to look at the blank stone of his mother’s any longer. For so long he had wanted to know her name, wanted to know if she were still out there somewhere just waiting for him to find her. It turned out she had been here all along, resting below him as he had run and played and learned with the other Stark children. He had been down here before. Seen her face before. But never like this. Never knowing that she was the woman who had brought him into the world. The woman who had died bringing him into the world.

He suddenly felt so selfish for never stopping and truly acknowledging her. For just darting passed and never focusing on her for more than a second. If he had known…Gods. He shook his head, sinking down to his knees before her effigy. Her body lay beneath it. Likely only bones left now. But she was here, part of her was here, though her soul had long departed. He touched his hands to the flagstones at the base of her effigy, and before he knew it tears were streaming from his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice echoing ominously in the cavernous space. “I’m sorry, mother.”

* * *

Sansa made her way to the parlour. One of the new maids, Efra, she thought her name was, had informed her that Roslin was there. She hoped that her good-sister was indeed still there, because she needed to speak to her. She needed to speak to someone before she burst. When she reached the door she knocked softly, and Roslin’s voice called for her to come in. Thankfully it seemed she was alone, but Sansa faltered slightly when she saw the look on her face. Never had she seen her so despairing. Her eyes went from her face to the letter settled on the low table in front of her and her heart clenched, her stomach churning.

“Has something happened? Have you had word from them?” she asked almost desperately.

Roslin looked confused, but then her eyes too slid to the letter on the table. In an instant she was snatching it up and folding it. “No,” Roslin shook her head, the smile coming to her lips looking more than a little forced. “No it’s not from them,” she continued, “I have had no word since the other morning, and they were perfectly fine then, as I told you.”

“Good,” Sansa said, relieved, though more than a little curious as to what the letter contained and why Roslin seemed so protective of it. Perhaps it was word from her family. Sansa thought that more than likely given the way she had snatched it up. Her family were her business and Sansa would not pry. Besides, she had come here for a reason.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, sit, please. I will get you some wine,” Roslin smiled again, and this time it looked as though it came easier for her. Sansa did as she was told, moving to take a seat as Roslin got up and moved to the side table. She watched as her good-sister poured the wine, still thinking that she seemed far more distracted than usual. Still, she would not pry, if Roslin wanted to speak up and tell her then she imagined she would. “Here,” Roslin offered her a cup of wine, and she took it with thanks as the older woman slipped back into her own seat.

Sansa sipped gingerly on the wine, feeling Roslin’s eyes on her as she drank. Slowly she moved the cup away from her lips and met her good-sister’s eyes. “I’m with child,” she said, and her dark eyes widened at once.

“Are you certain?” Roslin asked her, meeting her gaze.

“I’m certain,” Sansa confirmed, and Roslin clearly let out a long breath.

“Have you told anyone else?” she asked next, setting her own cup of wine down on the table and leaning forwards in her seat. Sansa shook her head in response, and Roslin looked relieved. “Good,” she said simply, the relief clear in her voice.

“I thought you would know what best to do,” Sansa said, and Roslin nodded slowly.

“We keep this hidden as best we can,” Roslin said, “when your condition becomes obvious it might be best that you confine yourself to the keep. The fewer people who know the better, and you must not write this to Aegon. Promise me, Sansa, I know you must want to tell him this news but you cannot. You will put yourself in danger, put us all in danger, do you understand?”

“I understand,” Sansa whispered, nodding her head, tears stinging at her eyes. Roslin’s eyes softened at once at her words, and she moved from her own seat to come and sit herself next to Sansa. Sansa allowed herself to be gathered up in her arms, clinging to her and wondering if it was the fact that she was a mother that made her embrace so comforting.

“It will all be alright,” Roslin promised her, rocking her slightly. “I know it’s overwhelming, but I promise you, this is a _good_ thing. There may be a way for me to get a message to Aegon,” Roslin continued, and Sansa pulled away from her slightly to meet her eyes.

“Really?” she whispered, hoping that it was true.

“Possibly,” Roslin nodded her head, “I would not dare write it down, but there is a man I trust implicitly who will soon be going south to meet Robb and Aegon’s armies. He can send word, if you trust my judgement on this.”

“I do,” Sansa said at once. It was impossible not to trust Roslin, with her wide eyes and her easy smile, and she was so desperate for Aegon to get this news. No doubt he would not be able to send word back, but she just wanted him to _know._ He could only be pleased, Kings needed heirs. There could be no question of him not being thrilled at the news.

“I will see it done,” Roslin soothed her, moving her hand to wipe the few tears from Sansa’s cheeks. “And I promise you, everything will be well. You have me, and you have your mother, and you are home, Sansa. You just need to stay calm and relaxed, and exercise patience.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said, leaning back into Roslin’s embrace and allowing her soothing words to wash over her. Naively she had not expected to find herself with child, she had thought that it wouldn’t happen until Aegon was victorious and they were settled at the Capitol. Now she wondered if the baby would end up being born here. If it took too long and she grew too heavy with child then she knew there would be no question of travelling to King’s Landing until the child was born. The thought made her uneasy, but she tried to push it away. It would do no good to dwell on it yet, not when there were so many moons left before the child was due to be born.

There was plenty of time for Aegon to take the Iron Throne, and she had every faith that he would soon succeed.

* * *

“Prepare for a siege,” Robb ordered as soon as his boots touched solid ground. The lords around him agreed in a moment, and the air was soon full of the booming voice of the Greatjon as he made his way through the lines of men – barking orders as he went. Robb turned his eyes to the Capitol, the place that had been unknown to him for so long. Unknown but despised. It was a vast expanse, and for the first time he doubted whether or not they could take it.

Calmly he reminded himself that they had the men, and that Aegon had the ships should they have need of them. He was wary of sending the ships into the bay though after what had happened when Stannis had tried. The thought of the Blackwater filling with fire again and burning a portion of his and Aegon’s men did not sit easy with him. If only there was a way of knowing whether there was any more wildfire stored within the Capitol. A thought struck him then, and he turned to look for Aegon, seeing him conversing with Connington after a moment.

Robb was more than happy to avoid any conversation with Connington for the most part, but at this moment he had need of Aegon, and so he approached. Aegon smiled as he came towards them, Connington in turn grimaced. Robb supposed he could be glad that the man made no secret of his distaste towards him. He smirked slightly in his direction before turning his attention to Aegon. “Tyrion Lannister,” he began, and Aegon frowned slightly.

“What of him?” Aegon asked.

“He was here during the Battle of the Blackwater,” Robb said, “it was his idea to use the wildfire, or so I am led to believe. You are in contact with him, we need to know if there is any more before we risk sending your ships into the bay.”

“I’ll write to him,” Aegon said at once.

“That will cause quite the delay, Aegon,” Connington spoke up, and Robb sent him a withering look.

“We are preparing for a siege, you are aware how these things can take time,” Robb said.

“I think we should be more offensive,” Connington returned heatedly.

“When you have an army to command you can be as offensive as you want,” Robb shot back, “but I want as many of my men to return home as possible. We set the siege, and we wait. Do not make the mistake of thinking me green. Better men have assumed it before you, yet they lie dead while I still stand.”

“Are you threatening me?!” Connington demanded.

“Enough!” Aegon snapped. “The siege will be set and we will wait. There are other pieces that may still slot into place. Robb’s right, we will lose too many men if we strike too soon. We wait, and I will write to Tyrion at once.”

“Thank you,” Robb said, managing a smile for his good-brother, sending a withering look Connington’s way, before turning on his heel and making towards his tent that the men seemed to have erected already. The direwolf waved proudly above it, and his own wolf trotted around to walk at his heels as he approached. Grey Wind rarely left his side now, and more often than not his big, yellow eyes followed Connington’s progress whenever they stopped to make camp.

Robb rested his hand on Grey Wind’s head for a moment when they entered the tent, before he moved towards the writing desk. He would write to Roslin now, before he got caught up in the inevitable council that would be called for a soon as the siege was set. Grey Wind slinked his way around the tent, sniffing at everything before clambering up onto the bed and fixing his eyes on the flap of the tent. Robb rolled his own eyes at him before pulling a sheet of parchment towards him. There was much he had to say about Roslin, especially after receiving word from his mother about Bran’s insistence that dragons were coming.

He had tried not to dwell on it too much. There was enough here in the present to concern himself with without worrying about what the future might bring. The threat of winter was concerning enough to him without worrying about dragons. Aegon seemed to have a plan for his aunt if she did indeed think to make the journey from Mereen to Westeros. Robb would leave him to deal with it, though if he was called on to aid then he knew he would be unable to refuse. Rebellions were one thing, but dragons were another entirely. He would not be able to ignore them, because he knew well enough that if they defeated Aegon they would soon turn their attention to him. With a shake of the head he determined not to think any more on it, instead dipping his quill in the inkwell and beginning his letter to Roslin.

_Roslin,_

_We have arrived at the Capitol, the siege is being set as I write this. I know you know well enough that it could take many months so I will not coddle you with promises of it soon being over. I am hopeful, though. Aegon is waiting on word from several men, and some lesser houses have already joined us. I have sent word to the Vale, but I will not hold my breath. If the pieces fall favourably we may not be in this stalemate for long. If they do not, well, we will just have to do this the hard way. Unless of course you know of any secret ways into the Capitol we could take advantage of._

_Tell my mother not to worry, I received her word of Bran’s warning, but I cannot let it concern me for now. Aegon has a plan, and I can only hope it will work should it have to. I hope you are all faring well at Winterfell, doubtless the people adore you already. Your idea to help the widows of the war was inspired, though I do not know why I am surprised. I hope the rebuilding is proceeding well, and that Bethany has settled. Doubtless she has grown much already. Gods I miss her. Miss you. It’s hardest at night, I have to confess, it reminds me of the Rock and all the darkness that resided in me._

_I want nothing more than to be with you both again. You have my word that I will finish this as soon as I can, and when it is done I will not hesitate to begin the journey back to you. Keep doing as you have been doing, you were made to be queen, my love, and I could not be prouder of you. I love you and Bethany more than anything else in this world._

_Stay safe, and stay warm. I love you,_

_Robb_

* * *

When darkness fell around them Roslin finally admitted that she was worried. After settling Bethany with her nurses and Marianne, she made her way out of the nursery and beckoned Ser Damon to her. He came without hesitation from his post, inclining his head to her. “Do you have need of me, my queen?” he asked.

“I would like you to accompany me outside the keep,” Roslin said. He furrowed his brow slightly, but made no comment. She was thankful for that. Her Queensguard were not men inclined to gossip, but she imagined the other guard on duty might think it odd that she was visiting the crypts at such an hour. Ser Damon inclined his head again, and Roslin smiled. “Shall we?” she quirked a brow before settling off down the hallway, hearing the clank of his armour behind her.

She was loath to intrude on Jon’s privacy at such a time, but he had been gone from the keep for hours and she was worried for him. Perhaps he had just got lost in his own thoughts and plain forgot the time. That was what she hoped, anyway. It did not escape her thoughts that he might have decided to run away from the truth he had just discovered. She hoped he had not, but if he had then she knew she could never judge him for it. The truth was shocking enough to her, she could not imagine what he must be feeling inside.

“Where are we headed, my queen?” Ser Damon asked her once they were out of earshot of the other guards. She rounded the corner of the hallway and began the descent of the stairs before she told him.

“The crypts, I believe Jon may be down there,” she answered, leading the way across the entrance hall and bowing her head in thanks to the guards who made to unlock and pull open the doors of the keep for her. If Ser Damon was curious as to why Jon would be in the crypts he didn’t voice it, and she was grateful to him for that. Across the courtyard they went, Roslin smiling nicely enough for the few townsfolk they passed. They smiled happily back at her, and it contented her somewhat to see it. She knew she was still new here, and that it would take more time for them to come to trust her, but it seemed she was doing well enough so far.

“Are you certain about this, my queen?” Ser Damon asked as they reached the entrance to the crypts.

“Do the dead frighten you, Ser?” she asked in response, pulling a torch from one of the brackets and passing it to him, before taking one for herself.

“No, my queen, but the Gods are different here. Might be this is not our place,” he said.

“The North has been welcoming enough so far,” Roslin said, tightening her grip slightly on her own torch before stepping properly inside the crypt. Even with the pair of torches it took a little while for her eyes to adjust as she slowly made her way down the stone steps. It was cold down here, drips of water falling every few moments as she led the way further through. They passed many stone effigies, but Roslin didn’t linger. These were the first of the Starks, the Winter Kings. Lyanna would be right at the end, and hopefully she would find Jon with her.

Ser Damon kept close on her heels as they continued on, the carved faces slowly becoming less weathered the further through they went. Eventually Roslin came to a halt, the passage went on, but the alcoves stood empty. Her heart sank. Jon wasn’t here. She moved her torch around so she could better see the last effigies. Lyanna Stark stood at the very end, next to her brother, Brandon. Roslin knew that by tradition they ought not to be down here, but Robb’s father had ignored it.

As she thought of Robb her eyes slid to the empty alcove next to Lyanna. The thought of him one day occupying the space made her shudder slightly. It would not be for years. Tens of years. Robb would die an old man, abed surrounded by his children and grandchildren. Perhaps even great grandchildren. Roslin had to believe that. “He isn’t here,” she murmured, finally tearing her eyes from the empty space, “come, let’s return to the keep.”

Ser Damon seemed happy to comply, but as Roslin turned to leave she heard the slightest scuffle beyond where Lyanna Stark rested. She turned back, her brow furrowing. “Jon?” she spoke his name quietly, but got no reply. There was nothing but silence. Perhaps she had imagined it. Even so, she couldn’t help but feel as though there were another presence beside her and Ser Damon. Slowly she took a few more steps down the passageway. “Jon?” she spoke his name a little louder, lifting her torch up slightly higher and turning it towards the direction she had heard the scuffle.

She screamed, Ser Damon unsheathing his sword at once before dropping his torch and grabbing her arm to pull her behind him. Roslin’s heart pounded in her chest so hard she thought it would beat right out of her. Ser Damon pointed his sword into the alcove, taking her torch from her and thrusting it ahead of him.

The man Roslin had seen was cowering back against the stone wall. He was clad in rags and filthier than anything she had ever seen. He was almost entirely emaciated, his hair as white as snow and his dark eyes almost bulging from his skull-like face. “Lower your sword,” Roslin whispered, laying her hand on Ser Damon’s arm and tentatively stepping out from behind him. Her guard did as he was told, though she could tell it was done grudgingly. Roslin met the eyes of the ragged man, seeing only terror staring back at her. “It’s alright,” she said soothingly, “he won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

At first she thought he wouldn’t answer, or perhaps that he couldn’t. His thin lips parted slightly, and his eyes darted around, as though looking for an escape. Roslin stood patiently, keeping her eyes on his as his tongue slowly came to lick his lips in a nervous manner. “Reek,” he finally spoke, his voice a broken whisper, “my name is Reek.”

 

 

 


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for all the comments and the kudos on the last chapter - much appreciated!
> 
> Sansa+Aegon, thank you, and yes, Jon will be telling Cat and the others, but not all at once!
> 
> hippityhoppit, thank you so much for your comments on For His Honour, and now on this. Glad you've been enjoying the series so far and hope you continue to do so!
> 
> Right guys, let's get on with the chapter!
> 
> :)

* * *

“Reek?” Ser Damon repeated, and Roslin flickered her eyes to him, seeing him looking faintly nauseated.

“He clearly isn’t well,” she said in an undertone, “the Gods only know how long he has been down here.” She moved her eyes back to the man naming himself Reek, sympathy stirring in her despite herself. Beyond the rags and the dirt she could see the marks on his skin. She could imagine the torture that must have been inflicted on him. It sickened her. “We could take him to Jeyne,” Roslin went on, “whatever he has endured he will likely be in need of care. We can only guess at what other injury he is hiding.”

“I suppose,” Ser Damon said slowly, and Roslin could only imagine that he was uncomfortable at the thought of having the man in his house. Roslin couldn’t entirely blame him, especially with the way his eyes were darting every which way. Vaguely she wondered if whatever torture he had been subjected to had broken his mind. Likely it was a strong possibility.

“Reek?” she tried tentatively, and his eyes darted back to her. “Would you come with us? We can get you some food and a warm bath, and a healer to look over you.”

Slowly the man shook his head, trying to shrink further back against the wall of the alcove he was in. “No, no, no,” he almost moaned, “no you’re a trick. He’s sent you to test me, but I won’t. I won’t betray my lord. My lord is good to me, I won’t leave him. I am honoured to serve him.” Every word seemed to tremble with fear, and Roslin felt a tingle of fear run down her spine.

“Who?” she asked gently, trying to step closer to him but being held back by Ser Damon.

“I won’t betray my Lord Ramsay. I won’t betray again. Never again, never again,” he continued muttering over and over again.

“Reek, look at me,” Roslin commanded more firmly, and he ceased, meeting her eyes once more. “Ramsay is caged in the prison, I promise you. He is no lord of anywhere, not anymore. Whatever he has done to you, he can no longer touch you. You have my word, Reek. Would you trust me? Would you come out of the crypts and see for yourself? Bolton’s banners no longer fly above Winterfell, you’re safe now.”

“This is Ser Damon,” Roslin went on when Reek made no reply. “His wife, Jeyne, she is a skilled healer. She helped save my husband when he was injured in battle. Trust me, you will be well looked after with her.”

Ever so slowly Reek moved at that, his eyes darting between her and Ser Damon as he half limped his way out of the alcove. She smiled encouragingly at him, gesturing for him to go ahead of her. He moved slowly, the limp more pronounced as he almost seemed to shuffle along the crypts.

“His mother didn’t name him Reek,” Ser Damon murmured in an undertone.

“No,” she agreed with him, “but I think I can guess who did. Can I leave you to escort him to Jeyne? I have to see the Smalljon about arranging an execution,” she went on as they followed Reek up and out into the courtyard. “The sooner Ramsay is dealt with the better, it’s what Robb wanted after all.”

Reek’s knees seemed to buckle beneath him, but Ser Damon moved quickly to hold him up. Roslin found his eyes again, seeing him almost looking more terrified than he had done before. She furrowed her brow. Was it mention of Robb? Or perhaps just hearing Ramsay’s name again. Perhaps his mind really was broken. She could not even imagine what must have been done to him to reduce him to such a shell of a man.

“Take him,” she nodded to Ser Damon, “you will be safe, Reek. I will come and see you again when you are better settled.”

He didn’t thank her. He didn’t say anything. There was just the frightened darting of his eyes in response as Ser Damon slowly aided him away. Roslin shook her head, pity still coursing through her body, before she fixed her attention on the keep. Her steps were brisk as she made her way back, her mind made up. Ramsay Snow would die come morning.

* * *

“Roslin, where have you been at this time, and where is your guard?” Catelyn couldn’t help but sound scolding as she descended the last of the steps to see her good-daughter coming in through the main doors alone. Robb had made her promise that the Queensguard would not be let up, even once they had arrived at Winterfell, and yet it seemed Roslin was flouting the rules already.

“Ser Damon was with me, now he has gone home,” Roslin replied, and Catelyn hummed suspiciously, not entirely convinced of her words. “Did you have need of me?” Roslin asked before she could voice her scepticism.

“A letter came for you,” Catelyn slipped the sealed parchment from beneath her cloak, and Roslin took it from her at once, turning it over so she could see the seal. Catelyn couldn’t help but smile as she watched Roslin trace her finger over the cold wax. She looked up in the next moment, her eyes looking a little misty.

“Thank you,” her voice sounded slightly constricted.

“You’re welcome,” Catelyn returned softly, her smile faltering slightly as someone rounded the corner. She had heard he was back. She swallowed hard as Roslin turned her head towards the newcomer as well, her own lips twitching into a smile.

“Jon,” Roslin almost sounded relieved, “I was looking for you.”

“I went to the Godswood, then the library,” Jon said, and Catelyn frowned slightly, smoothing her features when he looked towards her. He was inclining his head at once, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Lady Stark,” he greeted.

“Jon,” she said stiffly.

“I -,” he raised his head to meet her eyes, looking more than a little apprehensive. It was how he had always been around her. Her fault, of course. She just couldn’t help it. She just _couldn’t_ be his mother, even though she knew it would have meant the world to Ned and their children. He had too much of Ned in him. More than Robb. More than any of her children besides Arya, and that stung. It still stung now as he stood before her, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. “I was…” he seemed to be stumbling over his words. “I wondered if I might speak with you, please.”

She wanted to refuse him. She would have done, if it weren’t for the look on Roslin’s face. “Now?” she asked instead, and Jon nodded mutely.

“Do you want me to come?” Roslin asked softly, not looking to her, but to Jon. Again, her suspicions were piqued. There was something going on here. Something that made her uneasy. Jon had never sought her out for any reason, and yet now he wanted to speak with her. And why was Roslin looking so worried? Almost afraid, even?

“No,” Jon answered, shaking his head and smiling slightly for Roslin.

“If you’re sure,” she said slowly, “I must see the Smalljon, I suppose, and I ought to reply to Robb’s letter. Speaking of which, you left this in the parlour,” she slipped another letter from her cloak and handed it to Jon. Catelyn watched the movement suspiciously. “You might need it,” Roslin murmured quietly, before she turned her eyes back to her. “Goodnight, Catelyn,” she smiled, though the action looked more than a little forced.

“Goodnight, Roslin,” she returned, before fixing her eyes on Jon as Roslin made her way down the hallway. “There ought to still be a fire on in the parlour,” she tried to force the shake from her voice as she turned her attention to Jon. Robb would want her to be polite. “Come,” she inclined her head for him to follow her before sweeping towards the parlour.

Once he followed her inside she closed the door, staying faced towards it for a few moments to take a few composing breaths. Jon had grown as they all had since all the troubles had begun. Only he had grown more like Ned, and it felt like ice in her veins. Slowly she turned back round to face the room, seeing him stood uncertainly. Nervously. “Sit down,” she told him, hating how cold her voice had come out. She had never wanted to be that cold. Not even to him. She just hadn’t been able to stop herself.

“Thank you,” Jon murmured, doing as he was bid. She moved towards the side table to pour some wine. Gulping down half a cup before refilling it. “I’m sorry,” Jon spoke again and she almost flinched. What did he have to be sorry for? She was about to ask him when he spoke up once more. “I don’t wish to make you feel uncomfortable, my lady.”

She wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in her throat. He wouldn’t believe her, and she wouldn’t believe herself. Instead she filled another cup with wine and approached him. She held it out, and he took it with thanks. She tried to smile in response, but she didn’t think she had succeeded. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?” she asked him as she lowered herself onto the sofa opposite.

“My mother,” he said quietly, before raising his cup to his lips and taking a long drink. Catelyn swallowed hard, every muscle in her body seemingly tensed. She didn’t know. She had never known. Not for certain. She had asked, and she had heard so many different whispers. But she had never known. Ned had never _told_ her, and after Sansa was born she had given up asking.

“If you wish to know her name I cannot help you,” she told him briskly, before taking a sip from her own cup, her hand trembling slightly.

“I know her name,” Jon told her, and she almost choked.

“How?” she demanded of him, and he tentatively offered her the letter Roslin had given him.

“Who is this from?” she asked, making no move to take it.

“Lord Stark,” his answer was barely a whisper and she choked again, on a sob this time. “It isn’t what you think,” Jon continued, “it was never what any of us thought. Please, my lady, would you read it? For I do not think I have the strength to tell you myself.”

She took the letter wordlessly from him then, setting her wine down on the table between them before unfurling the parchment. Seeing Ned’s writing on the parchment was almost enough to make her burst into tears. Somehow she held her emotion back, taking in exactly what he had written on the page. There was a shake to his hand, she could see it all too clearly, and it felt as though an iron fist had clenched around her heart as she realised that he had written this from his cell in King’s Landing. With a lump in her throat she read on, until she reached the part that Jon had been so unwilling to tell her.

_I know you have always wanted to know about your mother. I know how it must have hurt you that I never told you who she was. Please understand, Jon, that I did it to protect you. It was what she wanted, and I promised her. I need you to understand, I need you to make them all understand that I did what I believed to be right when I claimed you as my son._

_I cannot think of an easy way to write this, and I have not much time, so I will just write it quickly and pray you will forgive me. You are not my true son, though I have loved you as such. You are the son of Lyanna Stark, and Rhaegar Targaryen, and I claimed you as my own son to keep you from Robert’s wrath. He would not have allowed you to live, Jon, and I could not let you die._

_If ever I escape this hell and set eyes on you again, I will explain everything to you. But for now, time is short, and I must get this swiftly away. I’m sorry, Jon, and I’m sorry for Cat. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. She would have been a mother to you if I had been able to be honest with her. Forgive me, Jon. I did it for Lyanna, to keep you safe. Forgive me._

_Your uncle, Ned_

Catelyn clenched the words in her fist as she came to the end. His confession had knocked everything out of her, and now it was spilling everywhere. The anguish from her own mouth was barely recognisable as she slumped forwards, her head in her hands as she sobbed uncontrollably. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear the world apart. She wanted to collapse in on herself and forget the existence of the rest of the world. Most of all she wanted Ned here in front of her so she could scream and shout and tell him what a fool he was. She wanted his arms around her and his lips murmuring his apology in her ear.

Why had he not just told her? _Why?!_

She flinched as a hand came to her shoulder, and it was removed in an instant. “I’m sorry,” it was Jon. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I – should I get someone? Roslin, maybe?”

At his words she managed to raise her head, barely able to make him out through her tears. He was sat at her side now, though he was keeping a clear distance between them. How could it be possible? There was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ Targaryen about him whatsoever. Ned must have thanked the Gods that he was all Stark. It would have made it far easier to continue with his lie. She faintly wondered what he would have done if Jon had been fair and violet eyed like Aegon. Like almost all Targaryens. He would not have been able to keep the truth from her. That was for certain. At that thought she almost laughed, and Jon looked bewildered.

“You are every inch his son,” she choked out, and he looked pained. “That’s why,” she nodded her head, her hand coming to shakily wipe her tears away. “That’s why I couldn’t – I – just, you and Robb…together, I – you always, _always_ looked like the trueborn son. It hurt me in ways I cannot explain. I _tried_ , I did. I swear I did. When you were small, I _tried._ But those eyes…they are Ned’s eyes. Even now they are his eyes, even with this – this,” she unclenched her fist and let the crumpled letter fall between them. “All I see is him, when I look at you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she shook her head, almost laughing again.

“Don’t apologise,” she told him, “I am glad his eyes are still in this world.”

“Arya has them too,” Jon said softly, and she nodded her head. “I don’t know how I am supposed to tell them,” he continued, “any of them. But Robb and Arya, they will be the worst. I cannot even say the words to myself. I could not even say them to you, who I -,” he cut off, and she smiled wryly.

“Who you have no care for?” she suggested, and his eyes fell to his entwined hands. “I don’t blame you,” she said softly, “what was I but the woman who mothered all your brothers and sisters and treated you as a burden? I never made you feel welcome, Jon. I’m not proud of it. I never have been.”

“You could have kept me from the others,” Jon said quietly, “you could have made me have lessons away from them and stopped me from playing with them. You didn’t. I have always been grateful for that, that I didn’t have to grow up alone and apart from them. Only, now…now they are not my brothers and sisters anymore, and I don’t know how to make any of it alright.”

It was his turn to choke on a sob, and her heart clenched even more tightly. What had Ned done? Kept this to himself for so many years, and then buried the truth in a letter to be read when he was no longer here to face the consequences. There was more to it. He had written it himself, promising to tell Jon _everything_. Only he had never left the Capitol alive, and the only other man who had survived the trip to Dorne was now dead too. Whatever the _truth_ was, Jon would never know it now. He was just left with the fact of his parentage and the stories of the Rebellion. It would hardly be a comfort.

“Jon?” she said softly, and he raised his eyes up to meet hers. “I can’t make this right,” she told him, it was true. How could she? After so many years she could never hope to make it right. “But I swear, I don’t know how I will do it, but I will do everything in my power to discover what Ned meant when he said he would tell you _everything._ I swear it to you. I know it won’t make things right, but it is all I can do, Jon.”

“Thank you,” Jon whispered, and she nodded, slowly, tentatively, reaching her hand out towards his. He inched his own forwards, and they clasped tightly after a moment. “Lady Stark, could I ask one more thing of you?” he murmured after several moments of quiet pressure.

“Of course,” she said at once. Was it not the least she could do?

“Would you help me tell the others?” he asked her, and she nodded her head. She would not relish it, but her children would need her, and so did Jon, so it seemed.

“Of course,” she said again, “whenever you’re ready.

* * *

The Smalljon made his way down the steps and into the cold, grey morning. Only the queen walked ahead of him, but the eyes of the people surrounding the courtyard were all for him. They knew he would be the one to wield the sword, to finally bring them some justice after what had happened here in the absence of the northern lords. They were looking to him now to at least try and make things right. The rebuilding was coming on well, but he knew that seeing Ramsay Snow’s head struck from his shoulders would be more of a comfort to many people here.

The bastard had terrorized Winterfell for too long, and had desecrated the Seven. The Smalljon worshipped before the heart tree, but he had fought alongside southerners and Manderlys. He knew what their Gods meant to them, what they meant to the queen and Lady Stark who were stood side by side with their eyes fixed on the prison. The bastard would be led out soon, and his hand went to flutter around the hilt of his sword, just waiting. His eyes flickered towards the queen, and she turned her head to offer him an encouraging smile. He was appreciative of it. Many times he had slain a man in battle, but he had never conducted a formal execution, and never in the name of his king.

As he took a deep, composing breath, he caught movement from the corner of his eye, and turned his attention towards the prison. His blood boiled as he set eyes on the traitor. The bastard was still smirking, even as he was led to the block. Ramsay didn’t appear to be struggling against his chains or the men either side who were guiding him. In fact, he appeared completely unmoved, even by the block laid out in the middle of the courtyard. The Smalljon had watched Roose Bolton come to his own death with his head bowed. Ramsay had his own high, an almost maniacal smile on his face. He had heard tales of what this bastard was capable of, and it turned his stomach.

He would like to just strike off his head here and now and forget the formalities. But they had to be observed. The queen had insisted that it be a public execution, that the people of Winterfell had a right to see their tormentor put to death. He had agreed with her, though all the eyes surrounding him were making his hand shake a little. To try and still it he clenched it hard around the hilt of his sword before turning his attention back to the bastard. He had been brought to a halt next to the block, and still not a flicker of fear or remorse was visible on his features. The Smalljon had seen just about enough. It was time this was finished with. “Any final words?” he asked clearly, and the bastard looked towards him.

For a moment he imagined that he would say nothing. That he would die just as silently as his traitor father. There was no such luck. Ramsay looked away from him, his eyes instead fixing intently on the queen. “A pity you weren’t here,” he licked his lips, “you have such pretty skin. You and I could have had much fun together.”

If the queen was afraid, she did not show it. In fact, the Smalljon could almost have sworn she rolled her eyes in response. Olyvar, however, seemed unimpressed, moving forward and grabbing the back of Ramsay’s neck – forcing him onto the block. The bastard actually laughed at that, and the Smalljon stepped towards him, trying to ignore how unnerved he was. This was not the normal behaviour of a condemned man. Though after what he had heard, he could not help but think that perhaps the man was entirely mad. He wished he had not said those words to the queen though, they would be recorded, and he himself had promised to report back to the King once it was done. To say he would be unimpressed would be rather an understatement.

Still, doubtless he would be satisfied to learn that the bastard’s head adorned the spike atop the gatehouse. The Smalljon stepped right up to the block, unsheathing his sword before bowing his head in submission to the Gods. “I, Jon Umber, heir of Last Hearth, on behalf of Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident, and Lord of Winterfell, sentence you to die. May the Gods have mercy on your soul.”

Ramsay scarce deserved the final words he uttered, but he said them regardless, as was proper. The guards pinning him down moved away in the next moment, and the Smalljon raised his sword above his head. With once swift blow he brought it down and severed the bastard’s neck. His head rolled towards the crowd, but not one of them flinched back. No one here would ever mourn the death of Ramsay Snow. In fact, as the head came to a halt they all began to slowly clap. The Smalljon swallowed hard, looking towards them all. There was still pain in the eyes of many, but he could recognise the relief and the gratitude mingling with it.

They had their justice. Finally. Their torment at his hands was truly over.


	13. XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!
> 
> I've been absent for a long time I know. I hope not to leave it so long again.
> 
> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos that have been left in my absence, it's much appreciated.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter.
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Jon followed Roslin almost uncertainly towards the nursery. He had still yet to meet the new addition to the family, but Roslin was insistent that he do so. There were guards positioned on either side, who bowed their heads as their queen passed between them and into the chamber. Jon came after her, feeling how much warmer it was in here than out in the hallways. It was almost too warm for him, but then he was used to freezing temperatures at the Wall. Roslin crossed at once to the cradle, and Jon watched as a smile came to her face as she peered into it. She was often smiling, but this smile was something else entirely, it radiated her love for her daughter. Jon’s heart clenched as he couldn’t help but wonder if his mother had ever looked on him like that. Perhaps she had never even had the chance.

“Come closer,” Roslin’s voice interrupted his darkening thoughts. “She’s awake,” that smile again, which Jon did his best to return. Slowly he moved towards the cradle, coming to a halt on the opposite side to Roslin. When he peered down he couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The baby was just like her mother, but it was Robb’s eyes that were shining up at him as she grunted and gurgled, her arms and legs waving and kicking at her blankets.

“She’s beautiful,” Jon managed.

“Thank you,” Roslin seemed to glow at his compliment, before she reached down into the cradle to scoop her daughter up into her arms. “She has grown yet again,” she told him as she cradled the little princess to her chest. “I think I will soon have to send your papa another drawing,” she cooed at her daughter, and Jon smiled slightly. It was joy and pain in equal measure. Roslin was lovely, and she and Robb deserved their happiness. Seeing it just reminded Jon of all he had never been able to have. Never allowed himself to have. He swallowed hard as Roslin’s eyes raised up to meet his.

“I know things have changed,” she murmured, “but would you still be willing to lay her before the Gods? I do not wish to tarry any longer. It’s what Robb wanted, and I would see it done.”

“Are you certain it is still what Robb would want?” Jon asked in return. “Perhaps it would be best if the Smalljon do it.”

“Robb wants you to do it,” Roslin held his eyes, “ _I_ want you to do it. Would you, Jon? Please.”

“Very well,” he sighed in defeat. He wasn’t sure how anyone was ever supposed to say no to Roslin. No wonder Robb had entrusted the North into her protection instead of forming a council of men to run things for him. “I will tell the others once it is done,” he went on, and she raised a brow. “And then I would begin the journey south.”

“You would not linger a while?” her brow was still raised.

“I am not sure I will be welcome to,” he confessed.

“They are your brothers and sisters,” Roslin told him firmly, “they will love you still, I know it.”

“And Robb?” he almost snapped at her, and she visibly faltered.

“You know I -,” she began, but he had no desire to hear her rationality or reassurance right now.

“Just don’t,” he cut her off, and to his surprise she fell silent. It was so quiet that it was almost crushing, until the baby in her arms grumbled slightly. That had Roslin’s eyes moving away from him, and he was glad of it. She hushed her daughter, rocking her and murmuring things he could not decipher, but that he just knew were soothing. He wished he had let her go on now. He wished he had let her talk. Let her try and soothe and coddle him. Perhaps he would not have been as placated as her tiny daughter appeared to be, but perhaps he could have let himself believe for just a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed heavily, and she shook her head.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, this must all be so overwhelming, Jon,” she replied.

“I can’t stay here once I tell them,” he told her honestly, meeting her eyes. “I just can’t, especially not Arya…I need to go. I need to go south to Robb. I am not certain that telling him will be any easier, but I need to _do_ something. I need to go. To help, perhaps…”

“And, Aegon?” Roslin asked him tentatively, her eyes still on his as she rocked her daughter slowly.

“My brother?” Jon laughed without humour. “I am not sure I will be welcomed by him, what am I but another threat to the throne he does not yet seat?”

“Aegon is more rational than you are likely imagining,” Roslin told him softly. “He will hear you, I am sure of it. Speak with Sansa if you would, she knows him better than I, but she is adamant that he is gentle and fair.”

“To her, perhaps,” Jon muttered, and Roslin shook her head slightly.

“You are determined to think the worst, I think,” she sighed, “I see I will not persuade you otherwise. Robb is much the same,” she continued, rolling her eyes. “Always thinking the worst.”

“Can you really blame him, given the times we are living in?” Jon asked with a raised brow.

“Perhaps not,” Roslin said, coming closer and placing the baby in his arms before he could protest. He adjusted his grip so the princess was secure in the crook of his elbow. “But we are still living,” Roslin went on, meeting his eyes again. “Which is more than many can boast.”

* * *

Robb took the letters from the squire almost greedily. Both were stamped with direwolves. One imprinted with the sigil that had been the Starks for thousands of years. The other new, crowned. He ran his thumb over the crowned one, knowing that it was from Roslin. Knowing that she had touched this parchment with her delicate hands. He took a breath. The ache was growing worse. Every day this siege continued made his heart weigh heavier and heavier. It made him restless. Anxious to _do_ something. There was nothing to be done yet, though. They were still waiting for word from Dorne and Tyrion Lannister. Varys had also not yet replied to Aegon’s letter. The waiting made all of them anxious.

Robb was aware that he was not the only man missing his family, but the ache in his chest for his wife and daughter made it hard to be sympathetic to anyone else’s plight. It was selfish of him, he knew, but thinking of how much Bethany would have grown hurt him in ways he couldn’t describe. He kept recalling his mother’s reassurances. His little princess would never remember this time apart. If all went well, she would only ever have good memories. Memories of being safe and happy behind the walls of Winterfell with her parents, her aunt and uncles, and grandmother. Brothers and sisters, too, if the Gods were good. He sighed. Each time he broke one of Roslin’s seals a little part of him hoped she would give him the news that she had found herself with child. He thought of how long they had been parted. She would certainly know by now if she was pregnant again.

He couldn’t help but hope for it. They needed another child, a boy. Robb adored his daughter, but the lords were always quick to remind him that his reign would be more secure with a son. With sons. Roslin would tell him, wouldn’t she, if she had discovered she was expecting another child? Perhaps she wouldn’t though, in case the letter was intercepted…

As he pondered what his wife would do he continued thumbing at the wax seal, only blinking the world back into focus when someone called out his name. He shook his head a little stupidly and looked towards who had hailed him. It was Aegon, and he was smiling. That would hopefully mean good news. Robb could only pray that it did. He was getting impatient, and the men restless. They wanted another fight, a final fight before the long march home. They wanted it over, and after everything, Robb wanted just the same.

“News?” he asked bluntly, as the fair man approached.

“Yes,” Aegon faltered slightly, his eyes darting to the letters in Robb’s hand. “You have had some of your own, is everything alright?”

“I don’t know yet,” Robb sighed. “Forgive me, I think I am growing as restless as the men.”

“Believe me, we all share the same frustrations,” the fair man smiled slightly wistfully.

“You said you had news?” Robb allowed him a moment before prompting him.

“Yes,” Aegon shook his head slightly, “perhaps we could…” he gestured to the council tent.

Robb inclined his head in agreement, and led the way to the largest tent in the centre of the camp, tucking his letters into his doublet as he went. Both the direwolf and the three-headed dragon waved lazily in the breeze on either side of the entrance. He led the way in, moving to pour two cups of wine from the flagon on the side table. Aegon took his with thanks, and they knocked them together before taking a drink.

“Varys has finally responded,” Aegon told him before he could ask, and he raised a brow.

“And?” Robb asked.

“He wants to meet,” he said, and Robb’s brows rose higher up his forehead.

“He would come to camp?” Robb asked, eyes fixed on his good-brother.

“Yes,” Aegon confirmed, “though how he will manage it I do not know. It will be the dead of night, here,” he inclined his head to indicate the council tent.

“May I be in attendance?” Robb asked, and the fair man nodded.

“I would prefer it,” he confessed, and Robb caught a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. It was easy to forget that Aegon was his senior. Robb frequently felt the elder, as though he was leading him. It made him feel slightly uneasy. Aegon needed to take the lead when Varys came. He needed to appear a strong leader who knew exactly what he was doing. Robb did not want to appear weaker than him, but nor did he want to be the one conducting proceedings.

“Don’t forget, he’s coming to see you,” Robb met the uncertain violet gaze.

“But why?” Aegon asked, and Robb shrugged. It wasn’t good enough. He needed to instil some kind of confidence in his good-brother. _What would Roslin say?_

“He will have his own agenda, from what I have heard of him we would be fools to try and decipher it,” Robb said. “But,” he continued, “he is coming here, into our camp, that is a risk for anyone, even someone as skilled in deception Varys. Tell him as little as possible, he needs to prove himself to you. You can take the Capitol without his help, he needs to know that. He needs to know that he will have to aid you well, if he is to keep his cosy position. But, _don’t_ trust him. You can never trust a man like that. You can use him, if he will allow it, but you will never be able to call him yours with any certainty.”

Aegon nodded, his face paler that usual.

“I have never had to speak like a king before,” he confessed after a moment, “not like this, anyway.”

“It gets easier with practice,” Robb smiled slightly, “at least you have always known what you would become. I never expected a crown,” he shook his head, “I never particularly wanted a crown, but I have one. I learned. You will learn. You will have to.”

Aegon nodded again, looking more determined, a hint of fire in his eyes. Robb felt more placated. He would speak as little as he could get away with during the meeting with Varys. Once the Capitol was in Aegon’s grasp he would be returning north, where he would have nothing to do with the Spider. He would be Aegon’s burden, and he did not envy his good-brother the weight of it.

“I will leave you to your letters,” Aegon said after a long moment, his smile looking slightly forced.

“Don’t dwell on it,” Robb advised him, and he nodded, before bowing out of the tent.

Robb slipped his hand into his doublet as the flap fell back into place, slipping the letters back out. He decided to read the one that wasn’t from Roslin first, he would savour his wife’s words last. The seal snapped beneath his fingers, and he unrolled the parchment, recognising the Smalljon’s hand. It was news of Ramsay Snow’s death, and a report on progress at the Dreadfort. He dropped into a chair to read it. Not all of it was pleasant reading.

His free hand clenched into a fist on his knee as he read what the bastard had said to Roslin before his head was struck from his shoulders. He could tell the Smalljon had written the words reluctantly, he could almost see the pause in his writing. Still, as much as it angered him, he knew damn well that his wife would not have let it bother her for a moment. He was satisfied at least that the bastard was dead, that the people of Winterfell were seeming to rejoice in his head being set atop the gates. Stone was already coming from the Dreadfort; that too gave him a sense of satisfaction. He was less pleased that there was no news of Theon. Part of him was beginning to think that he must be dead. Perhaps at the bastard’s hands. He sighed. He would not be sorry if his former friend was dead, but he could not help but mourn the fact that he had not been able to slay him himself.

He had wanted to look into Theon’s eyes. He had wanted to see if there was any remorse. Any hint of the man he had loved as a brother, of the man he had never dreamed would betray him in such a way. He had been foolish and green to trust him. His mother had warned him. The lords had warned him. He had ignored them. He had _known better._ He still couldn’t quite shake the guilt. Likely it would reside in him forever. He had hoped that perhaps taking Theon’s head himself would help lay some of it to rest. Now though he was having to consider the fact that it would likely never happen. He could not afford to send men out scouring the country for a man who may already be dead. There were more important things to consider. He sighed again, laying the Smalljon’s report aside and turning his attention to Roslin’s letter.

He smiled when Roslin’s familiar, neat script greeted him. Robb took in her words slowly, savouring them. She made brief mention of Ramsay’s execution, and of a man she had found in the crypts. Robb frowned slightly at that, wondering what she had been doing down there. Perhaps she had just been exploring, she had told him in a previous letter that she was making her way through Winterfell, determined to learn every inch of it. Her dedication had had pride swelling in his chest. He was certain the people would adore her, though he knew his wife would never claim that herself. She was too modest, which was likely one of the reasons she was so beloved. He sighed, continuing on.

It appeared Jon had arrived, Roslin told him she was glad to have finally met him. It made Robb smile, he had not said anything, but he had desired nothing more than for his wife and brother to get along well. It had worried him that Roslin might keep her distance slightly from Jon, given how close she was to his mother. Seemingly his worries had been foolish, his wife spoke warmly of him, and assured Robb than Jon was willing and glad to agree to lay Bethany before the Gods. Robb hoped it would happen sooner rather than later. He wanted his daughter blessed and protected. Roslin assured him that everything and everyone was well, and that things seemed to be settling into some kind of normality. He was glad of that. He could not wait to ride back and be greeted with normalcy. He craved it. Almost as much as he craved his wife.

She signed off with her love, and he read it over and over until he had had his fill. He closed his eyes and conjured her image. Her smile. Her touch. The look in her eyes when she gazed at him. He missed it all, but his memories would have to sustain him for now. Another sigh escaped him as he opened his eyes again. Slowly he folded the letter back up, and placed it back inside his doublet with the one from the Smalljon. He would return to his own tent to reply to them. There was no rush, he would take his time. He needed something to keep his mind occupied until the late night meeting with Varys. Robb stretched his back as he stood, another sigh leaving him. His mind was back on Aegon now. Gods he hoped his good-brother would be able to hold his own against the Spider. Robb couldn’t help but feel like a large portion of their fortune was resting on how well this meeting went.

* * *

“It’s nice to have something different for a change, don’t you agree, my queen?” Marianne smiled happily as she braided and pinned Roslin’s hair.

“Hmm?” Roslin blinked distractedly, only half listening to what her niece was saying. Marianne was fond of jabbering away. Usually Roslin was glad of the conversation. Glad to speak of things of little importance, instead of the usual council business. She imagined being queen was exhausting at the best of times. Being queen during wartime and in the absence of her king was something else entirely. Still, she would not complain. Many of her duties she found enjoyable, if tiring.

She was well and truly distracted tonight though. Really, she ought to be smiling and happy. She was inside. Seeing Bethany being laid before the heart tree had made her heart swell with pride, and had tears brimming in her eyes. Jon had conducted her naming perfectly, though she had not been able to help but wish that it was Robb laying their precious daughter before the Gods. Though she did not worship the Old Gods, she couldn’t help but feel the importance of the moment pressing down around her. Bethany was a northern princess. One day she may even be a queen. Roslin hoped not, but it was a possibility that she could never fully ignore.

“Are you alright?” Marianne murmured quietly, pulling Roslin’s thoughts away from her daughter’s future.

“Of course,” she smiled, “it has just been a long day, and I have much on my mind.”

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” her niece sounded placated, and Roslin smiled again.

“It was,” she agreed. “I will be glad that I can finally tell Robb that she has been blessed. It is something that will bring him much joy, I know it.” _Joy he may soon need to cling to,_ she thought wryly. Jon would leave tomorrow, after speaking to the other Stark children. Roslin had tried urging him to stay longer, to allow time for the news to sink in properly to the others. He had refused. Lady Stark had also tried, though she was reluctant to press him. Roslin knew that the guilt was weighing on her more than anyone else. She felt as though she ought to have pushed Lord Stark further. She felt that if she had then perhaps she would have discovered the truth a long time ago.

Roslin had tried to assure her otherwise, but she wasn’t sure that her good-mother had taken any comfort from her words. The others knew that something was going on, Arya’s eyes often seemed to follow Roslin almost suspiciously. Roslin was ashamed at the fact that she had been avoiding the younger girl. It wasn’t right, but she didn’t feel as though she could do anything else. Sansa had actually asked her, but she had fobbed her off with the excuse that she was missing Robb. It wasn’t a total lie, and Sansa had swallowed her explanation easily. Sansa had plenty on her mind already, so Roslin wasn’t entirely surprised that she hadn’t pressed her on the matter.

“There we are,” Marianne’s voice pulled her back to the present again, and she brought another smile to her face, tilting her head from side to side to appraise herself in the mirror. Her hair had been intricately braided around the bronze crown that her niece had gently placed atop her head before beginning work on her hair. Roslin couldn’t help but admit that she looked regal. She had looked far more like a queen since taking Marianne on as her attendant. Vaguely she wondered what Robb would make of it, smiling slightly as she always did when she thought of him.

“Thank you,” Roslin met her niece’s eyes in the mirror. “I don’t know how you do it,” she smiled.

“Only the best for the queen,” Marianne said teasingly, and Roslin’s smile widened.

“I suppose I ought not to tarry any longer, the people are hungry for a celebration,” she said.

“As well they might be,” Marianne said in an uncharacteristically serious tone.

“Winterfell is healing,” Roslin said, “it has suffered, that I cannot deny, but it is healing.”

“It is difficult to imagine what they endured,” Marianne said sadly.

“Do not dwell on it,” Roslin advised her, “there is nothing anyone can do to change what has already passed. All we can do is work to make the future safe, for all of us.”

Marianne nodded at that, a smile lighting her eyes. Roslin smiled in response, laying her hand on her niece’s shoulder for a moment before moving both to smooth the front of her skirts. It was rather too cold for silks, but it was a special occasion, and the dining hall was always perfectly warm. Marianne moved to take the fine, grey furs from the hook by the door almost in response to Roslin’s movement. She had taken charge of Roslin’s attire as well, ensuring there would be no mistaking her for anyone other than the queen. Roslin knew better than to argue, her fingers admiring the deep plum silks that made up the dress she was wearing for Bethany’s naming feast.

Her little princess would be absent, of course, already tucked up safely in her cradle and sound asleep. The people would feast and drink in her honour though, something that made Roslin swell with pride. She never wanted her daughter to know anything but adoration. Roslin took a satisfied breath as Marianne moved to drape the furs easily about her shoulders. They were delightfully soft against her skin. No good at all for being outside the keep, but perfect for such an occasion. She turned and smiled at her niece, and Marianne beamed back.

“You look more queenly every day,” she clapped her hands together gleefully.

“I will try not to take that personally,” Roslin said wryly, raising a brow. Marianne seemed unabashed.

“Shall we?” she asked brightly instead, already stepping towards the door.

“I believe we ought to,” Roslin inclined her head, and Marianne opened the door, curtseying her through it.

Roslin tried not to roll her eyes as she swept passed her. Marianne spoke informally enough to her more often than not, so when she reverted to curtseying and addressing her as queen it always took Roslin a little by surprise. She much preferred informality from her family, but even Olyvar bowed and addressed her properly whilst they were in public. She knew it was only proper, but it was not something she could claim to enjoy. Still, it was something she knew she ought to get used to.

Ser Damon fell into step a few paces behind her as she made her way down to the hall. His presence was something she had long grown used to, despite how irked she had once been that Robb had insisted upon a constant guard upon her. She was reluctantly glad of it now. Not that she would ever admit that to her husband. She only hoped he was getting on as well with his Kingsguard. As she reached the bottom of the stairs she brought a smile to her face, inclining her head gratefully to the guards that sprang into action to open the doors of the dining hall for her. She thanked them as she swept through them, seeing them bow lowly from the corners of her eyes.

Once through they closed them behind her and she was enveloped in warmth and loud chatter. The hall sounded happy. It was almost enough to content her. They had all come to celebrate her daughter after all. The smile on her face was less fixed now, and she responded to those who almost seemed nervous to greet her. She saw how they visibly relaxed at her easy response, and a warm little glow settled in her chest. It felt good to please the smallfolk, to have them smile widely at her and give their blessings to her and her daughter. They were eager to tell her that they were praying for their king, and she thanked them sincerely. She was glad they had no resentment towards Robb. It was something he had worried about, had agonised over during the nights they had stayed up late, unwilling to waste the little time they still had left on sleep.

She had assured him over and over that they would understand, they would not blame him. They had been hopeful assurances rather than certainty, but she believed now that when he returned from the south that he would be greeted with warmth and cheer. The thought soothed her as she turned away from yet another well-wisher. She had almost reached the high table now, the smile easily fixed on her face now. It only fell when she caught sight of Jon sat right on the end of the table. He brightened his expression when he caught her gaze, but he wasn’t quick enough to conceal the look of despair she had recognised in his features. She swallowed hard. Tonight might be a celebration for the people, but for Jon it was the prelude to something she knew he was dreading. Somehow she forced another smile as Sansa hailed her, doing her best to keep her mind away from the potential disaster that was hurtling towards the heart of her family.


	14. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for the welcome back comments and kudos! 
> 
> Sorry this one took a little while, the second part of the chapter was a tad challenging for me.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Aegon paced slowly up and down the tent. With each moment that went by he grew more and more tense. Part of him was beginning to think that Varys wasn’t coming. He avoided looking towards Robb, who was sat at the table nursing a flagon of ale. The last thing he wanted to see was disappointment in his good-brother’s eyes. Gods he hoped that Varys would come. Robb had warned him not to trust him, but he had also said that the man may well be the key to ending this damn siege. Aegon hoped he could be. He just wanted it over now. He wanted the Iron Throne to be in his hands so he could set about righting a thousand wrongs. More than that, he wanted to be able to send the Northmen home, and summon Sansa to his side. He missed her. She was guarded in her letters, he could tell. He understood her caution, but he missed the openness with which they could communicate when they were together.

As he turned to begin another lap of the tent he chanced a glance at Robb. Likely it was much the same for him. Worse, most like, given that he had a swiftly growing child to miss as well. How Aegon wished he could give them all a true answer as to when they could go home and begin to try and live in some kind of normalcy again. He almost snorted. If all went as he had long hoped, then his life would never be normal again. He would rule over the six kingdoms of the south. Slowly he let out a long breath, turning to retrace his steps once more. He got half way across the tent when one of the guards outside the tent spoke so lowly he had to strain to hear every word.

“A visitor, your Graces,” he said.

Before Aegon could decide whether to reply or stride to the opening and pull it aside himself, the hooded visitor had already slipped inside. Aegon looked towards him expectantly, having come to a halt just behind the chair on which Robb was seated. Robb himself had his eyes fixed on the newcomer, his stance slightly stiffer than it had been before.

“Your Graces,” the man lifted his hands to pull down his hood. A bright smile adorned his round face, an almost mischievous glint in his eyes. “Both of you here to greet me, I am most honoured. This has all come together more perfectly than I could ever have dreamed. Though, as you are both more than likely aware, there are problems still to overcome.”

He clapped his hands together at that, bowing his head slightly. Aegon raised his brows a little, wondering what comment to make. He thought for a moment that Robb might speak up, but then remembered that his good-brother was intent on him taking the lead. After a breath, he decided he better do just that, before the silence went on too long.

“Sit,” he gestured to the chair opposite where Robb was sat. Varys did as he was invited, still smiling cheerfully. “Can I offer you some wine?” Aegon asked, and he bowed his head.

“Thank you, your Grace,” he said smoothly. Aegon went to pour two cups, assuming that Robb was still content with his ale. There had appeared to be plenty left in his tankard when Aegon had glanced down at it. He moved back to the table when he had filled the cups, placing one before Varys before taking a seat of his own next to Robb.

“You have risked much, coming out here to meet us,” Aegon spoke as Varys took a drink. “I trust you are certain that you have not been seen, and will come to no harm when you return to the city?”

“I have made my way in and out of the city for years without detection,” Varys smiled. “You know what they call me, I trust, your Grace?”

“I do,” Aegon confirmed.

“It was I who mastered the plot to smuggle you from the city all those years ago,” he went on. “Your mother was a clever woman, far cleverer than your Grandfather ever gave her credit for. It wasn’t easy, doing it all under his nose, but together we managed it. I am only sorry there wasn’t enough time to smuggle the princess away as well. That, of course, was the ultimate goal. Your mother was determined I took you first, and I did as she bid me, and here you are, all these years later. A man grown.”

“Why did you stay?” Aegon asked.

“What would I gain from leaving?” Varys countered. “I was very useful to Robert Baratheon, he kept me alive. As he kept many others alive who had once been loyal to the Targaryens. I would have been a fool to try and leave his service. Besides, had I not stayed, I would not have the knowledge of all the Capitol to share with you now, would I?”

“So you stayed for me?” Aegon raised a brow, a sceptical smile coming to his face.

“Not entirely,” Varys seemed unabashed. “I hoped, of course, that you would flourish in the east and grow into a man capable of challenging for the throne. But, this is a dangerous world we live it. You could have sickened and died. You could have been killed. Forgive me, you could have grown into madness, as many in your family have done over the centuries. None of us would have wanted another Aerys, though I have been satisfied for a long time that you were not made in his mould. Thank the Gods.”

“I am…I am, him, then?” he asked awkwardly. “I am Aegon, this isn’t a trick? I am truly him?”

“You are,” Varys met his eyes as he said the words. “I assure you, I would not have risked my life a thousand times over for a bastard or an imposter. You are Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia of Dorne, rightful King of Westeros.”

“Of the southern kingdoms,” Aegon corrected quietly but firmly.

“Forgive me, of course,” Varys said smoothly, “I was uncertain of what titles had been formally discussed between you, your Graces.”

“Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident,” Aegon gestured to Robb at his side.

“And quiet as his father before him,” Varys smiled slightly.

“I’m glad you mentioned my father,” Robb spoke for the first time, and Aegon took a deep breath. “There are some questions I would put to you, since you are the master of whispers. What happened to him? How was that bastard able to imprison him and take his head?”

“I am sorry to say, your Grace, that your father placed his trust in the wrong person,” Varys said slowly, his eyes on Robb. “If he had listened to me, had trusted me in place of Lord Baelish, then perhaps things would have turned out differently. Perhaps we would not all be sat here now. We will never know if it was for the better or not.”

“Baelish?” Robb repeated, his voice dangerously low.

“Yes, Lord Baelish,” Varys confirmed. “Your mother’s childhood friend, doubtless Lord Stark thought he could trust his honour. A great shame, that Littlefinger has no honour, and even fewer scruples. He promised your father the Gold Cloaks, to arrest Joffrey and his mother. When the time came, however, they turned on him instead. To the prison he went, accused of treason. You know how the rest went, I don’t believe you need me to remind you.”

“Is Baelish still at the Capitol?” Robb asked next, his knuckles stretched white as he clenched his flagon hard.

“No,” Varys looked slightly uncomfortable. “Were you unaware, your Grace, that he has recently been wed to Lady Arryn, your aunt?”

“Clearly,” Robb almost spat. “That explains why I have had no response from her with regard to the war.”

“And you will get none, not until Littlefinger is entirely certain who will triumph, only then will he release the armies of the Vale,” Varys said.

“Bastard,” Robb muttered.

“Indeed,” Varys agreed, before turning his eyes back to Aegon. “Now, perhaps we ought to discuss this siege of yours, and exactly how we will go about ending it the right way.”

“The right way?” Aegon repeated questioningly.

“You sat unharmed atop the Iron Throne,” Varys smiled again.

“Have you word from Dorne?” Aegon asked.

“I have,” Varys confirmed. “They are suspicious, of course, though curious as well. I believe they would come, especially if Oberyn has his way, but there is the small matter of the Reach being well and truly in the way. Dorne could not hope to march their armies through the Reach without being hindered by the Tyrells. Unless, of course, the Tyrells could be persuaded to turn a blind eye.”

“And why would they do that?” Aegon asked, seeing Robb shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. There was a smile on his lips, though Aegon doubted it was one of joy.

“They would not do anything unless there was something in it for them,” Robb spoke up before Varys could answer. “So what is it that they want?”

“You are astute indeed when it comes to them,” Varys inclined his head towards Robb. “Though you may be overestimating them. The Tyrells do not have the power they once had. As we speak, Margaery Tyrell remains imprisoned in the Capitol. It is the work of Cersei, unmistakably, but it has played perfectly into our hands. Her family are desperate for her release, but that is not something the Lannisters will grant, even if they wanted to.”

“I don’t understand…” Aegon frowned.

“Cersei struck a deal with the faith,” Varys looked smug. “It was foolish of her, to give them so much power. She has no control over them, she never did, though she would not have realised it. My little birds tell me that it will not be long before she is basking in a cell of her own. Her brother, too. When that day comes, well, I would not be surprised if the gates did not lower to you at once.”

“Surrender? Just like that?” Robb snorted disbelievingly.

“The right word in the right ear,” Varys said. “Kevan would never agree to a surrender, but Mace Tyrell has many men within the walls. If an agreement was reached, promises made for his daughter’s safe release, assurances that he would be pardoned…”

“The Tyrells get away with their treachery once more, you mean?” Robb sounded irritable.

“Gods, no,” Varys shook his head. “They know damn well they will never be trusted at court again, not now. If you show favour to Dorne, then it will no longer be the Dornish who fear the Reach, but the other way round. I believe there are two Dornish princes, perhaps one of them will make a fine match for Margaery Tyrell when her marriage to Tommen is annulled.”

“You seem to have thought of everything,” Aegon said, slight suspicion in his tone.

“It is merely a suggestion,” Varys shrugged. “You must do what you feel is best, your Grace. But I do know, that if you allow me to whisper in the right ears, that you will soon be set atop that throne, and it will be far easier than you ever dared dream.”

“Sounds too good to be true,” Robb muttered.

“Your father didn’t trust me either,” Varys said sadly. “I wish he had, for I had a great liking for him, and never wished to see him dead.”

“Yet you did nothing to prevent it? Though you knew what was happening? What Baelish was planning?” Robb was clearly seething.

“I was his only visitor in prison,” Varys was looking directly at Robb now. “I smuggled a letter out for him, two in fact. One was to be enclosed within the other. I made certain they were delivered into the right hands.”

“Whose hands?” Robb asked.

“Howland Reed,” Varys answered. “The first was for him, the one within it, I believe, was to be given to your bastard brother – Jon Snow.”

“Jon?” Robb frowned. Aegon glanced to the side, seeing an almost hurt look cross his features.

“He spoke often of you, of all his family,” Varys said. “It was his only desire that you be safe, that is why he confessed in the end, of course. He hoped it would put a stop to your march south and to Sansa’s stay in the Capitol. Of course, it did the opposite. He was never supposed to die, he was supposed to be given the opportunity to take the black. That is why I did nothing, your Grace, because none of us knew that Joffrey would call for his head atop the steps of the Sept. None of us. Not even Cersei.”

“Utter your whispers,” Aegon said quietly as Robb bowed his head towards the table. “Say what you must to get us inside the Capitol, and we will take it from there.”

* * *

Catelyn was the first to enter the parlour. She looked around, seeing it recently tidied, a fire dancing happily in the grate. Likely the servants had not long been in. Already the new charges that Roslin had appointed seemed to be fitting smoothly into the everyday life in the keep. Catelyn twisted her hands together in front of her, unsure of what to do with herself. She had known when she left her chambers that she would be far too early for the gathering that had been called, and yet her footsteps had carried her straight to the parlour most often frequented by the family.

After another moment she moved her feet again, stepping slowly towards the fire and staring towards the flames. It was almost too hot, standing so close, but she didn’t move away. The creeping discomfort was nothing to what she would soon be enduring. Catelyn had endured much already, there was no way of denying it. _This,_ though. Well, this may be one of the most difficult yet. Everything else she had somehow found a way of moving on from.

When she had lost her mother she had found solace in her new baby brother. When Brandon was killed she hadn’t had the time to truly mourn, Ned was upon her before she had the chance. Ned was good, gentle, it became him she prayed for at the feet of the Warrior, especially when she discovered she was carrying Robb in her belly. Her husband bringing Jon home…

She closed her eyes, she could no longer think of that the same way. Not now. Her fists clenched. Gods she was angry. Angry with herself. Angry with Ned. Angry for Jon, and all her children. Just, so angry, and yet she still had to stand poised and calm. Her children would have questions. Doubtless they would all react differently, all need something different from her to be consoled. That was the most endearing and frustrating thing about her children. They were all so different. Each had their similarities, of course, and all possessed good hearts and sound minds. But their characters…each were different, and each would need her comfort to be different.

The click of the door drew her attention, just as her mind threatened to engulf her with memories of her husband. She blinked, took two steps back from the fire, and turned to see who had come in. It was Jon. She swallowed hard. Even now it was hard not to think of him as Ned’s son. She had to check herself, still faintly surprised when she didn’t feel the stab of bitterness in her gut, followed immediately by a wave of guilt. That’s how it had always been. The absence of it now was strange, though she did not mourn it.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Jon’s lips twitched, almost a smile. He looked just as lost as she felt. Just as uncertain. The urge to mother him was stronger than it had ever been. She silently cursed Ned. Why could he not have told _her_ , at least? She could have raised Jon with him then. She would have been happy to. Why had he not trusted her?

Voices echoed down the hallway, heard through the door that Jon had not yet closed behind him. She met his apprehensive eyes, swallowing hard. “Would you sit with me?” he asked shyly, and she nodded her agreement.

A moment later the source of the voices was revealed. Sansa and Roslin entered. The former looking politely confused, and the latter somewhat strained. Roslin did a good job of disguising her inner feelings. She did it daily. Catelyn could see it – though she doubted anyone else could. Sansa moved to perch herself on one of the sofas, and Catelyn watched her, a slight smile coming to her face as her daughter shifted her skirts neatly around her. She was developing a queen’s poise, likely from trailing Roslin so much. Thankfully there was no outward sign yet of her pregnancy. Best that was hidden for as long as possible, Catelyn and Roslin had quickly agreed on that.

“Is something wrong, mother?” Sansa’s question had her blinking again, her daughter looked confused, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“No,” Catelyn managed a smile. “I was just admiring the lacing on your dress.”

Sansa beamed, and Catelyn took a breath. When she looked away from her daughter she briefly met Roslin’s eyes. She didn’t need to ask to know what her good-daughter was thinking. Gods, she hoped the others would soon arrive. The last thing she wanted to do was force herself to participate in small talk. She could barely think coherently, let alone speak.

Thankfully, Osha and Hodor soon delivered Bran and Rickon, settling them before the wildling woman encouraged Hodor from the room. Catelyn admired her tact, and meant to thank her, but the words stuck in her throat. It felt as though she had been rendered mute. She couldn’t even make her lips twitch up into a half smile. Roslin, however, found her voice, and her smile. Catelyn often found herself grateful that she had named her for Robb’s choice of bride – this was another of those moments.

Arya finally arrived, dusty from the tiltyard and a tear in the tunic she was wearing. She looked like a common townsperson. Ordinarily Catelyn would have scolded her for her appearance. Arya knew damn well that she was supposed to clean up and make herself look presentable whilst within the keep. She was allowed to train in the tiltyard on that proviso. Right now though, Catelyn was still rendered mute, and so her daughter went un-scolded. Which was likely why she looked so suspicious as she moved to take a seat next to Roslin.

“What’s going on? Why have we all been summoned here? Have you had news of Robb and the war? Is it bad?! Has something bad happened?!” Arya’s questions became increasingly desperate, and on Roslin’s other side Sansa paled, her fingers twitching around the fabric of her skirts.

“No,” Roslin said calmly, her hand reaching to settle on Arya’s knee for a moment. “It is Jon who would speak, he has something to tell you all.”

There is was. She’d said it. There was no going back now. Jon was the only one still stood, hovering awkwardly next to the arm of the sofa that Catelyn was occupying. The space next to her was free for him, as he had requested, but he had seemed unsure of taking it. Now, though, with the eyes of all her children on him, he finally moved hesitantly to sit.

Catelyn watched each reaction carefully. A tiny frown creased between Sansa’s brows, though her expression remained that of polite confusion. Rickon’s frown was more pronounced, as was his blatant confusion. Catelyn’s stomach knotted – he was too young for all this. Bran almost looked resigned, and she knew that he must have discussed the dream with Jojen – that he may have been making the connections, piecing together the dream, the letter, and now Jon’s coming announcement.

It was Arya she focused on the longest, though. Seeing her expression span from worried, to suspicious, to an almost anger. There was fear in her eyes though. It was the fear that registered most prominently with Catelyn, and her stomach knotted even harder. She felt sick. She reached out before she could stop herself, wanting to find Ned’s hand. Wanting him to steady her. It wasn’t Ned’s hand she found though, but Jon’s.

That had Arya’s eyes widening like dinner plates, and even Sansa could barely disguise her shock.

“What -?” Arya began.

“I found out who my mother is,” Jon blurted out, cutting her off.

“Who?” it was Sansa who asked, leaning forwards slightly. Catelyn closed her eyes. Jon’s hand twitched below hers. She wondered for a moment if she ought to let go, but her instinct had her squeezing tighter. Perhaps too tight. He didn’t complain, nor pull his hand from beneath hers. She wanted to say something. To encourage him. No words came though. She was still frustratingly mute.

“Lyanna Stark,” Jon said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“What?!” Arya burst out. Catelyn snapped her head to her, seeing the look of disgust. She shook her own head. No. Arya could not think of it like that. She could not think of her father that way. No.

“No,” she finally found her voice. “No.” It was all she could say. It seemed Arya understood, her stance relaxing, but only slightly.

“But…father?” Sansa now, all queenly poise abandoned. She looked like a crumpled little girl. Roslin slipped her arm around her shoulders, and Catelyn was grateful.

“Father wasn’t your father, was he?” Bran asked the question, looking at Jon calmly. Jon shook his head, before his gaze fell to the floor.

“Oh,” it was barely more than a squeak from Sansa’s mouth, but Catelyn guessed that she, like Bran, had deduced who Jon’s true father must be.

It seemed the only two who were still unaware were Arya and Rickon. Catelyn suspected that Arya’s own ignorance was self-inflicted, whereas Rickon was just too young to understand.

“Is Jon not my brother?” Rickon asked quietly, his eyes wide and welling with tears.

Catelyn finally let go of Jon’s hand, holding her arms out to her baby boy. He slipped from his armchair and came towards her. She enveloped him into her arms, rocking him gently while she tried to find the right words. “Jon will always be a brother to you, so long as you love him as a brother. I know he loves you as such,” Catelyn told him, and he sniffed loudly. “Nothing has to change, Rickon. Not if you don’t want it to.”

She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, before resting her cheek atop his soft curls. It was a comfort, selfishly, to have him in her arms. Hopefully it was comforting him as well. Arya looked up to meet her eyes, and Catelyn almost flinched. Her daughter looked almost murderous, and it frightened her to see it. It was a look she had seen in Robb’s features on occasion, and though she understood it from him, it was never something she enjoyed seeing. In Arya, though, it was something else entirely. It was chilling right to the very core of her.

“You never loved Jon,” Arya’s voice was low and accusing.

“Arya!” Roslin scolded in hushed tones, her eyes insistent, though Arya didn’t look at her.

“You never did!” Arya stood up, her eyes flashing. “You never wanted him here! You never wanted any of us playing with him, not really! You didn’t want him in our lessons! You never even let him sit up at the high table with us!”

Catelyn’s eyes welled with tears.

“You wished that father had never brought him back from the war!”

“Enough!” Jon snapped, and Catelyn turned to him in shock. “You should never speak to your mother like that. You have no idea how lucky you are, to have a mother that loves you so much!”

Arya looked dumbstruck. Hurt featured most prominently for a moment. Then came the defiance. Catelyn steeled herself. She could almost sense the whole room holding its breath. Rickon even shifted himself slightly out of her embrace so he could look towards Arya. Defiance mingled with anger – almost loathing. Catelyn shook her head. She knew whatever Arya said next she would not mean, and that she would regret it.

“Well I wish father never brought you back either,” she spat towards Jon.

Catelyn inhaled sharply. She wasn’t the only one. Even Roslin looked lost for words. Bran simply looked disappointed. Jon seemed to crumple slightly in his seat, and Arya shot from the room before anyone could summon the words to stop her.

“She didn’t mean that, Jon,” Roslin found her voice first.

“No, she didn’t,” Bran agreed.

“You can still be our brother, if you want?” Rickon said shyly, reaching a hand out to touch Jon’s shoulder.

Catelyn had a moment of fear, worried Jon would shrug him away and storm out exactly as Arya had. She may have tried to avoid Jon for the most part, but even she could never deny the similarity between him and her daughter. How close they became because of it. Given everything, Catelyn would not have blamed him if he wanted to run and hide.

He didn’t.

He lifted his head, turned towards Rickon, and smiled.

“I would like that very much,” Jon said softly.

“We all would,” Bran said, and Jon nodded, his eyes shining.

“Perhaps I ought to find Arya…” Roslin looked unsure of herself, making to rise from the sofa.

“No,” Jon shook his head, “I’ll go.”

“She really didn’t mean it, Jon,” Catelyn met his eyes, and he nodded once.

“I know,” he said. Though he didn’t sound entirely certain.

Before she could offer any other words of encouragement he had lifted himself from the sofa and slipped from the room. Catelyn hoped he would find Arya in a calmer state than the one she had left in. She also hoped that her daughter would apologise for her words, and not say anything else that she would regret.

“He’s Aegon’s brother, isn’t he?” Sansa broke the heavy silence after a long moment.

“Yes,” it was Roslin who answered.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sansa looked slightly dazed as she rose up. No one spoke up to dissuade her from leaving. Catelyn had known from the start that each of her children would take it differently. She had known that her boys would likely accept it more easily. That Arya would be the most difficult. The exception to that assumption would be Robb – she couldn’t quite guess how he would react. Only that it would be better than expected, or far worse than expected. There would be no halfway, and that worried her.

Roslin met her eyes then, and she could tell that she was thinking the exact same thing.

A knock came at the door before any comment could be made though. Roslin got up to answer it, Catelyn shifting Rickon from her lap and standing herself as she recognised Jeyne’s voice. She moved towards the door.

“…sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t not say anything,” Jeyne was saying as she came to Roslin’s side. Catelyn was instantly assuming that Jeyne must have caught sight of Arya’s storming from the keep.

“What is it?” Roslin asked.

“It’s that man, the one you and Damon found in the crypts,” Jeyne said, and Catelyn could see her apprehension. It had a frown creasing her brow at once.

“What of him?” Roslin asked next.

“He has night terrors,” she said. “To be expected, of course, given the extent of the torture he has endured. He speaks, in his sleep, sometimes. I thought…perhaps if I listened to him, I might learn something of him. I have been piecing it all together, writing it all down. It could be that I am entirely wrong, but I know from Damon that there has been no sign of him at the Dreadfort nor anywhere else…”

“Jeyne, what is this? What are you saying?” Roslin was insistent now.

“My queen, I -,” Jeyne faltered. “I think – I believe – that this man, this man, Reek. That his true name is – is – Theon Greyjoy.”


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I know it's been a very long time, so I hope there's still some interest for this story.
> 
> I've been moving/starting a new job, and to top it off I've been struggling with a bit of block. That's all done with now though, and hopefully I can get back to more regular updates. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the new chapter! 
> 
> :)

* * *

Roslin stared, her cheeks draining of colour. She blinked stupidly. It made no sense. How could that broken man be Theon Greyjoy? Robb had described him, many a tale Robb had told her had included Theon in one way or another. How could they not? He had been like a brother to Robb. Until…She blinked again, searching Jeyne’s face for any hint of uncertainty. There was unease, but the other woman held her gaze easily.

“What?” she finally whispered. She had been kind to that man. Insistent that he was helped. She had ordered Ramsay’s execution on his discovery, sickened to her very core by what had been inflicted on him. Now she discovered that she had done all that for Theon Greyjoy. She felt sick all over again.

“Are you telling me that Theon Greyjoy is in your home? That you have been tending him?” there was a hard edge to Catelyn’s voice as she spoke from just behind her. Jeyne flushed, looking at a loss for words as she opened and closed her mouth several times.

“I – I -,” Jeyne stammered. Roslin could only imagine the look her good-mother must be bestowing on her, she could almost feel the daggers stabbing into her own back.

“She did so at my behest, Catelyn,” Roslin found her voice, turning to face Robb’s mother. “The man I found in those crypts was frightened and hurt. He gave his name only as Reek, he could barely speak. I told you this. I did not think for a moment that he could be Theon, there was nothing in him that equated to the man I have heard Robb speak of. Not one thing.”

“I will see him for myself,” Catelyn practically snarled, before she swept passed Roslin, Jeyne pressing herself out of the way.

Roslin and Jeyne exchanged a glace, before they made their way after her. Ser Damon joined them in the entrance hall, where Roslin had asked him to wait while she was with the family. He looked more than a little confused.

“What -?” he began.

“Just follow us!” Roslin snapped. More harshly than she had intended. She would apologise to him later, right now she needed to stop her good-mother from doing something stupid.

Catelyn was at Jeyne’s clinic as they rounded the corner into the street where she resided. Roslin called out to her, picking up her pace. Her good-mother’s expression was that of pure fury. Roslin could understand her. If she had ever had the news that Bethany had been – she couldn’t even finish her train of thought. She would be broken, more so, if the culprit had been someone she had trusted.

She had a knife in her hand when Roslin and Jeyne half stumbled through the door, Ser Damon cursing behind them as he clanked through after them. Reek, Theon, whoever he was, was stood cowering against the opposite wall. Next to her, Jeyne breathed in sharply, and Roslin struggled to find the right words for her good-mother.

“Catelyn, put it down. He is unarmed, just put it down,” Roslin coaxed.

Catelyn’s grip on the blade seemed to tighten. It was a sharp knife, one that Jeyne undoubtedly used for brewing her medicines. They were clearly in her workroom. It was tidy but slightly chaotic, doubtless it was to be expected – given that she was running the clinic alone. They were still short of a Maester, though Roslin had had ravens sent out offering the post.

“Tell me your name!” Catelyn hissed, clearly ignoring Roslin’s advice.

“Reek, Reek, my name is Reek,” the man seemed to try and shrink further against the stone wall.

“Catelyn -,” Roslin tried again.

“Tell me the truth!” her good-mother shouted, and Jeyne flinched next to her.

“Reek!” the man was desperate. Greyjoy or not, Roslin felt the need to protect him, and so she stepped forwards, placing herself between him and Catelyn.

“Stop this now!” she summoned up her courage, looking her good-mother dead in the eye.

“I will have the truth!” Catelyn shot back.

“You will not get it like this! Put it down!” Roslin said commandingly.

“You don’t know! You don’t understand what he did to my family!” Catelyn retorted murderously.

“I _do_ ,” Roslin was stung by her words.

“You can’t!” she almost spat back.

“I do,” Jeyne intervened before Roslin could think of anything else to say. “I understand. I know what it did. I saw it in you, and in Robb. I saw how it broke you both, how it drove both of you onwards, made you more determined to bring your girls home. I know what happened broke your heart, Lady Stark, but in the end your boys still live. Unharmed.”

“You think that excuses it?!” Catelyn demanded.

“No,” Jeyne shook her head, moving forward to lay a hand on Catelyn’s wrist. Her grip on the dagger seemed to slacken slightly. “But look at this man. Theon or not, he has been broken beyond all repair. It could be that he does not even remember what atrocities he committed.”

Catelyn opened her mouth as though to argue, but Jeyne spoke again before she could. “I know it doesn’t excuse him, but it will not be justice if you kill him now. Surely you want him to understand _why_ he is to die? With time, he may remember more, may remember his name and what he has done. But for now, please, put the knife down.”

“It is Robb’s decision, remember,” Roslin reminded her good-mother, gently but firmly.

Catelyn looked mutinous for a moment, but then she turned her gaze away, dropping the knife with a clatter onto the floor. Ser Damon darted forwards quickly for a man of his size, snatching it up and putting it out of her reach. Jeyne visibly took a breath before taking a few steps back, her hand going to her rounded stomach as her husband placed his hands on her shoulders.

“We ought to go back to the keep,” Roslin spoke into the silence.

“Robb gave you command,” Catelyn lifted her head and met her eyes. “You are in command of all that happens here in his absence. You could give the word. Have him executed.”

“No,” Roslin said firmly.

“At the very least, have him taken to the prison!” Catelyn cried.

“I won’t do that either,” Roslin said.

“You intend to leave him free, where he could flee at any moment and escape justice! I never saw you as a fool, Roslin, but this is the biggest mistake you will ever make!” her good-mother stormed.

“Do not mistake my compassion for weakness, Catelyn. I will have him escorted to the free chambers in the Maester’s tower and he will be under constant guard. If Jeyne is agreeable then she will continue to tend on him, to help him recover his mind. Stop and think for a moment, do you think Robb will want to come home and execute a madman?!” Roslin demanded.

“You know how he feels about Theon!” she shot back.

“I do,” Roslin agreed. “But I also know that this isn’t the way. He would regret it. He needs to see Theon, the _real_ Theon, not this Reek. And the only way that is to happen is if he is treated properly. It is Robb’s decision to make when he returns – until then this man will be placed under house arrest and given the comfort he needs to recover, and I do not want to hear another word about it.”

* * *

“You’re back, Lord Varys,” Aegon commented sleepily. “And dawn has barely broken. I trust you have news for me, and I trust that it is good.”

“Your Grace,” Varys bowed too lowly for Aegon’s liking.

He reclined back in his chair, his eyes fixed expectantly on the hooded arrival. Aegon had only been awake for a few minutes before his guard had announced the arrival of his guest. He had had half a mind to send the guard to fetch Robb, but he did not want Varys to think that he could only conduct business with his good-brother at his side. When Varys scurried back to the city he would relay the conversation to Robb and gather his thoughts.

“Your Grace,” Varys said again, lowering his hood. “I come with news.”

“As I suspected,” Aegon said. “Do not leave me in suspense.”

“As you wish, your Grace,” Varys said silkily. “A party has left Dorne, a rather large _royal_ party. I am assured that the party will meet no resistance as they progress through the Reach.”

“And you trust this, _reassurance_ , do you?” he raised an eyebrow.

“I am suitably convinced,” Varys replied.

“But certain?” Aegon pressed him, leaning forward in his chair.

“As certain as one can be, in these times,” Varys responded, and Aegon narrowed his eyes.

“I will not be double-crossed. Not by anyone. Do you understand me?” he questioned.

“I do,” Varys bowed his head in a show of meekness that did not convince him.

“I will not be underestimated, by you or by those scheming snakes you have made deals with in that nest of back-stabbers and power hungry climbers,” Aegon hissed.

“Your Grace -,” Varys began.

“You need to understand something,” he cut him off, rising from his chair. “When I take the Iron Throne – the throne which is rightfully mine – there will be a great many changes made. I can assure you of that.”

“Of course, your Grace, as is your right,” for the first time Varys looked nervous, and Aegon felt a deal of satisfaction in the fact.

“There is much treachery, many double agents. How could I trust any of them?” he asked with a raised brow.

“Your Grace, you must trust in your own judgement – which I don’t doubt is sharp and true. You must surround yourself with only those you can trust implicitly. Those who serve you, and only you,” Varys bowed.

“Indeed,” Aegon smirked slightly. “Well spoken, Lord Varys. Though, if I took your advice entirely at its word, would you not be putting your own position at risk?”

“It is for you to decide my fate, your Grace,” Varys said unflinchingly. “I have only ever served your interests, though in doing so I have had to be seen to serve others. I can only hope that your Grace will see that, and allow me to prove myself loyal entirely to you, and those you hold dear.”

“Indeed,” Aegon said again, lowering himself back into his chair.

“I can only hope to prove myself loyal to you, in time, your Grace,” Varys said.

“Not too much time, I hope,” Aegon raised a brow. “You ought to return to the city.”

“As you wish, your Grace,” he bobbed his head.

“I hope to hear more news soon,” Aegon said.

“I have no doubt that you will,” Varys returned. “Keep a close eye for the sigil of Dorne.”

“I shall,” he said.

Varys then bowed lowly, clearly and astutely guessing that it was the end of his audience. Aegon watched him slip out of the tent, exhaling deeply. Hopefully he had done the right thing, struck the right tone. He could not think of anything he had said that could have given Varys cause to imagine him weak or easily mouldable. Seeing the Spider without Robb had been a good thing, he thought. After breaking his fast he intended to call on his good-brother and discuss the new developments. He would also need to speak to the watchmen about being vigilant in keeping an eye out for the Dornish party.

Aegon called for food and watered wine to be brought, before letting his mind wander to the approaching party. He wondered if either of his uncles would be leading them. Perhaps both? He had not thought to ask Varys. Why had he not thought to ask?

Before he could mentally scold himself any further, he was hailed from outside the tent. “Come,” he called out. A squire entered with his breakfast, closely followed by Connington. Aegon dipped his head to the second of the men, thanking the squire when he had laid down the plate of food and jug of watered wine. The squire then bowed and left, Connington turning to the side table to fetch two cups.

“May I?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Aegon gestured to the chair opposite him.

Connington took the place and set about pouring them both a measure of the wine. Aegon picked at the food, wondering why Connington had come at such an early hour. Perhaps he was being paranoid. Likely the man had just wanted to see him alone with no risk of Robb being around. It had never been a secret to anyone that the two of them did not get on. Aegon took a drink, and resolved not to be so suspicious. He may have been testing at times recently, but Connington had been with him almost all his life, and had never guided him wrong. While they may not always agree, Aegon knew that he could always trust him to be loyal.

“You must forgive me for coming so early, your Grace,” he said.

“I had long risen,” Aegon replied.

“I have had news from the east,” Connington sounded tentative.

“What news?” Aegon asked.

“Your aunt, Daenerys…” Connington seemed to waver.

“Say what you must,” Aegon said patiently.

“They say her dragons are near maturity, certainly large enough to ride,” he said.

Aegon let out a deep breath. It was not the news he had wanted to hear, it meant that she may no longer be confined to the east. Aegon had always hoped to treat with her, but not until he was safely sat upon the Iron Throne. Preferably after Sansa had been returned to him. He grit his teeth slightly. If what Connington said was true, then Daenerys could soon be making her way to Westerosi shores. He wondered what her tactics would be. If she would come straight for the Capitol, or land elsewhere and try and gather allies as she marched.

That had worked for Aegon. As he and Robb had marched their armies up from the Riverlands, several lesser lords and many knights had joined with them. Robb had been hopeful that they would be joined by a few hundred more on the journey, but it had been better than he had hoped. By last count, they had attracted well over a thousand. Now that they were stationary there were still small bands of men slipping in to join the camp. Aegon was pleased, every man would count when it came time to take the ultimate prize.

“Does she have ships?” Aegon looked towards Connington.

“I cannot be certain, but I believe so,” he replied, and Aegon cursed under his breath.

“And men?” Aegon asked.

“Sell-swords,” he answered. “Though, if she were to land here, her dragons would likely frighten many into joining her.”

“The Gods damn her,” Aegon hissed.

“Your Grace, there is always the possibility -,” Connington began.

“If you are about to suggest what I think you are, then I would advise you against it,” Aegon said heatedly.

“Your Grace, I know you are against the idea of a second wife,” Connington said soothingly.

“Good,” he said with finality.

“Perhaps an envoy could be sent to her,” Connington said.

“To what purpose?” Aegon asked.

“You had always set aside Dragonstone with her in mind,” Connington said. “She would be restored to her title of princess, and would become Lady of Dragonstone in her own right. The girl was never born to be queen, you were always above her in the line of succession. Until such time your own queen delivers an heir to you, you could name Daenerys as your successor.”

“It all sounds reasonable,” Aegon nodded. “But there is a problem.”

“What is that, your Grace?” Connington asked.

“She would have to believe that I am truly Aegon Targaryen,” he said. “And I do not believe for one moment that she will ever accept it – not when she has a claim of her own, and an army and three dragons at her back.”

* * *

Jon knocked softly on the door. He knew she was in there. He had been looking for her for hours and eventually found her. She had been in the Godswood, but he had known that if he had confronted her there then she would have just run away from him. Instead he had watched her, then tailed her back to the keep and up to her room. He would let himself in if he had to. He knew he ought not to invade the privacy of a lady, but he could not leave Winterfell and head south until he had made his peace with her.

“I know you’re in there,” Jon spoke through the door. “Just let me in, please.”

“Go away!” Arya was fierce as always.

“No,” Jon returned.

“Stay out there then!” Arya cried back. “See if I care!”

Jon tried to turn the handle, but she had locked the door. He sighed. He should have known.

“Go away!” Arya screeched again.

“Please, let me in, Arya. I don’t want to have to break down your door. Your mother would have a fit,” he tried a jape. It was not the right thing to do.

“I’m sure she’ll forgive you, you and her are best friends now – aren’t you?!” came the sarcastic retort.

“I’m going south tomorrow,” Jon said, ignoring her jibe. “Please let me in so I can explain. I don’t want to leave with you so angry with me.”

“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” came the haughty reply.

“I said I don’t want to leave,” Jon almost snapped. “It doesn’t mean I won’t!”

“Go then!” Arya shouted at him. “I don’t care! I don’t care if I never see you again!”

“Fine,” Jon bowed his head in defeat. “But please, listen to this…I love you as my sister, and I will always love you as my sister. There are no number of ill words you can throw at me that will ever change that, ever. Goodbye, Arya.”

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the wood of the door. From within he heard a heart-wrenching sob, and he closed his eyes tighter so tears would not escape from his own eyes. He could not listen anymore, he turned on his heel to see Roslin stood at the end of the hallway. There was sympathy in her eyes, and though he was grateful for her kindness he could not stand to see her pity.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said briskly as he walked towards her.

“I thought as much,” she smiled sadly. “I will be sorry to see you go.”

“I must,” he said.

“I know,” she nodded as he came to a halt in front of her.

“Is there anything you wish me to say, or to take, to Robb?” Jon asked her.

“I have a letter for him, I will hand it to you in the morning,” she said, and he nodded.

“There is something you could do for me,” Sansa’s voice came from behind Roslin, and the smaller woman stood aside to allow Sansa to come closer.

“Anything,” Jon said, and Sansa smiled, her eyes welling with tears.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t always a good sister. I pray you can forgive me, I know at times that I was nothing short of beastly,” Sansa said.

“Sansa, please…” Jon began, not really knowing what he would say.

“It would mean a lot to me if you would accept my apologies,” she said.

“Of course,” he did not know what else he could say.

“But it would mean even more to me if you would relay a message to Aegon, and to him alone. No one else can hear it, do you understand?” Sansa held his eyes, a steely edge to her voice.

“I understand,” he agreed at once, wondering what was so important.

Sansa stepped closer to him, looking around as though checking for any other presence besides themselves and Roslin. When she was satisfied she moved her head close to his ear and whispered her message. “Tell him I am with child,” she said. “Tell him I am well and being tended carefully. Tell him that no one knows save my mother and Roslin. Tell him I am sorry that I could not give him the news myself, and that I pray for his swift victory so that we can soon be together again. Will you tell him, Jon?”

“Yes,” he nodded as she pulled back to meet his eyes again.

“Those exact words?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said again, and she nodded, her features relaxing.

“Thank you, Jon,” she said, and he saw a tear slip slowly down her cheek.

“Sansa, do you -?” he stumbled over his question, and she looked at him expectantly. “Do you think that he will accept me?”

“Until now, he has had no family save an aunt who seeks his throne, and myself and mine,” Sansa said. “It will be a shock for him, I know that, but I have no doubt that when he comes to know you that he will love you, Jon. He will accept you as a brother, I have no doubt, though it may take a little time. I beg you have faith, he will see that you are a blessing, I know it.”

* * *

She was very beautiful. It seemed the rumours were true. He was slightly distracted by it, though not nearly as distracted as he was by the great beasts that had been circling the great pyramid of Mereen when he had been led up the steps. It had been a blessing to step inside the pyramid, out of their gaze. Those rumours had been true, too, it seemed.

Then he had been confronted by her, the silver queen. Quite how he had ended up here he did not know. He was _supposed_ to have been kept safe at Illyrio’s palace until such time his sister was dead. Only, he had received a summons from non-other than Aegon Targaryen. The would-be king was offering him Casterly Rock and a seat on his council. Tyrion had, of course, sensed that Sansa was behind such a generous offer. It had heartened him, though also shamed him. He had not always been as kind as he ought to have been to her, but she had not forsaken him as she would have had every right to do.

For the first time he imagined that he might just get everything that he had ever dreamed of. Perhaps he may even think of taking another wife. _Third time lucky._ Only, it had all gone wrong, as he probably ought to have suspected that it might. Illyrio should have given him a larger guard. Tyrion should have questioned it. He didn’t, though. He set off down to the docks with half a dozen men, and was promptly kidnapped by just one. Ser Jorah Mormont. Tyrion had questioned his use of that title, given his wanted status in the North, and received a black eye for his _insolence._

After that he had shut his mouth, for the most part. Sometimes he could not help but slot in the odd jibe or niggle. Ser Jorah may not have appreciated it, but it made Tyrion feel better. He doubted anything could make him feel better in this moment, though. All he could think of as this self-proclaimed queen fired question after question at him, was that his head may well soon be set upon a spike. Or that, perhaps, he would soon find himself burnt to ashes. Eaten alive. Dead, in some manner or another.

“And what of his, _queen_?” the word was spoken with scorn. Tyrion forced himself to focus. “What of this Sansa Stark, I hear she was once your wife. She must have high ambition indeed to cast aside a lord for the chance to wed a _king._ ”

Obviously, she did not believe Aegon to be who he claimed to be. Tyrion could understand why, but he could not allow her to think ill of Sansa.

“Sansa Stark had precious little choice in the matter,” Tyrion said, raising his head. “She did her duty, as she did when she wed me. Being such a strong and powerful woman, my queen, you may not have such an understanding of the dutiful expectations placed on young ladies -”

“I know well enough,” Daenerys cut him off with a cold stare.

“Forgive me,” Tyrion turned his eyes to the floor.

“Tell me about her,” she commanded.

“She is a meek and kind girl, though there is a strength in her that I do not think even she knows the full extent of,” Tyrion said. Perhaps he had said too much? Been too complimentary? He chanced a glance up at the silver queen. She looked mildly interested. Impressed, perhaps?

“Clever?” she arched a brow.

“Exceedingly,” he responded.

“And yet not clever enough to recognise when an imposter is using her and her family to gain a throne to which he has absolutely no right,” she spoke calmly, but Tyrion could detect a shake of fury underlying her words.

“If you will forgive me, my queen,” Tyrion swallowed hard, his mouth dry. “I was…sceptical, at first, about the identity of the man to whom you refer. I imagined, as you do – with good reason – that he was a plot. An imposter set in place by Ser Jon Connington. A false Targaryen. Perhaps he is false, though, my queen I must tell you that his features cannot be denied. But I must say that I have no doubt in my mind that that man _believes_ that he is Aegon Targaryen. It is the only name he has been given, and it is the only explanation for his existence that he has. True or false, he is only doing what he believes to be right.”

“As am I, Lannister,” she met his eyes with a hard stare. “As am I.”


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! New chapter for you all. Hope you all enjoyed the last, and thanks for sticking around after such a long absence. Less of a wait this time - hope you like it!
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos, much appreciated!
> 
> :)

* * *

Roslin was woken by the alarm bells. She shuddered awake, throwing the covers off herself. It was still dark out, and her heart was pounding. Who could it possibly be? A messenger perhaps? A party sent from Robb? Somehow, she doubted it. If the party were recognised then there would be no need to ring the alarm bells. She darted to the window, snatching up her robe as she went, pulling it on over her nightdress. There was a mist hanging over Winterfell, and she could only just make out the faint shapes of the men moving hurriedly along the battlements, the glow of their torches dancing in the darkness.

They seemed to be moving towards the northern gate. Her heart beat ever more quickly, and she moved to pull on her shoes before pulling her furs from the hook behind the door. She wrapped them around herself as she left her chambers, seeing the Smalljon hurrying down the hallway towards her as she did so. He looked panicked, and she immediately turned to the guards on either side of her door.

“Gather the rest of your men and go to the nursery. You are to guard the princess, and you are not to leave your post until I tell you myself. Do you understand? You are not to leave,” she commanded, as calmly as she could muster.

“Yes, my queen,” they spoke as one, bowing their heads before hurrying away. Roslin turned to the Smalljon expectantly as soon as they rounded the corner.

“What is it? Why are they ringing the bell?” she asked him, trying to keep the shake from her voice.

“An army approaches,” he told her, panic clear in his own voice.

“An army?!” she repeated disbelievingly. “Who?”

“Stannis, my queen,” he told her. “It seems he has finally found his way down from the Wall.”

“How many?” she demanded of him.

“I cannot know for certain. The men estimate a force of between three and four thousand, though the visibility is poor. There could be more, though they are mostly on foot and are likely to be weary.”

“Even so, can we stand against them?” she asked.

“We have walls, and we have men, all of whom are at your command, my queen,” he bowed his head.

“Take me to the battlements,” Roslin said, and he nodded, gesturing for her to go ahead of him.

Roslin did as he bid, making her way down the steps. The main doors were already open, with men coming in and out hurriedly. They were shouting orders at one another, and seemed to be gathering weapons. Huge vats of water were being brought out of the kitchens, orders for great fires to be lit to set the water boiling. Roslin tried not to think about it pouring down onto the heads of men at the gates. Hopefully it would not come to that.

She strode across the courtyard, men scattered out of her way as she made her way towards the battlements. When up on the walls she hurried towards the northern gate. She would see this approaching army for herself. As she drew closer she recognised Olyvar, heard him ordering the men in his calm and commanding manner. Giving her brother a position of command had been one of the best decisions she had made as queen. She only hoped her best was to come, and that she would make it now with Stannis almost at the gates. This was one thing she would have to get right. Winterfell was depending on her.

“How far away?” she asked when she was close enough.

“Roslin!” Olyvar looked shocked. “Are you in your night clothes?”

Some of the men around him hid smiles and slight laughter behind their hands. Despite the seriousness of the situation Roslin could not help but twitch her lips up slightly. Leave it to Olyvar to be scandalised by her attire when they had an army bearing down upon them.

“I think there are more serious matters to consider – don’t you, Olyvar?” she asked drily.

“Yes, of course,” Olyvar seemed to shake himself, his composure clearly returning.

“How far away?” she asked again.

“Less than an hour, my queen,” it was one of the men who answered her.

“I would rather avoid a fight, if possible. There is enough of that still to come without any more of it happening here,” she said, working to keep her voice even.

“What would you do?” the Smalljon asked from behind her.

“Gather a small band of men and send them out to meet the army. They are to speak to Stannis, and Stannis alone,” she said. “Tell him I seek an audience with him. We will break bread with him and a guard of his chosen men. We will speak peacefully, should he be agreeable.”

“And if he is not?” Olyvar asked.

“The rest of our men will continue to prepare for an assault,” Roslin said calmly. “Winterfell will not be taken again, not on my watch.”

“Nor on ours, my queen,” one of the men commented. She inclined her head towards him in thanks.

“Olyvar, will you put together the advance party?” Roslin asked.

“I will lead it myself,” he told her.

“Of course,” she sent him a strained smile.

Olyvar nodded his head towards her, before striding away, calling several men to his side as he went. Roslin watched him for a moment before she looked out over the ramparts towards the advancing army. It was true, that most of them were on foot, only a scattered few seemed to be on horseback. Roslin had heard about what had transpired with the wildlings at the Wall, and now she could see for herself how much it had weakened Stannis’ army. Still, it was unexpected and he was still a threat. It was best for everyone that he was persuaded to the right side. Roslin would have to be the one to do it, only at this moment she did not know how. 

Summoning her courage she turned her back on the approaching army, meeting the eyes of the Smalljon. “Well,” she said. “Everything is in hand, I will leave you in command of the men, my lord. If Stannis is agreeable to the meet then I will meet him in the grand parlour. Send someone to me when you have word, I must make myself presentable.”

“Yes, my queen, of course,” the Smalljon bowed his head, and she inclined her own to him before setting off for the keep once more. She was halfway across the courtyard when she realised that she was unguarded for the first time since she had arrived at Winterfell. It shocked her for a moment, but then she realised that she did not feel in the slightest bit afraid for her own safety. The realisation was enough to bring a small smile to her face as she hurried up the steps towards her chambers to ready herself. Gods, she hoped that Stannis would be agreeable to the meeting. She did not want to think about how much it would enrage Robb to discover that Winterfell had been attacked again.

She would not, could not, consider the possibility that Stannis may well win the battle.

She could not allow it to happen.

Inside her chambers she pulled out one of her finer dresses, a deep purple silk that Robb had gifted her with. He had always told her she looked most regal in it. As she slipped it on there came a knock on her door. _That was quick, too quick,_ she thought.

“Who comes?” she called out.

“It’s me, Marianne, I thought you may have need of me!” her niece called back.

“Yes, come!” Roslin bid her.

The door opened in the next moment and Marianne slipped through, coming towards her at once and taking hold of the lacings of her dress. Roslin took deep and even breaths as her niece laced her up, trying not to think about how much time had passed, nor to guess how long it may take to conduct a meeting with Stannis. She remembered Ser Davos, he had always seemed kindly to her. If he still lived, was still at Stannis’ side, then perhaps Roslin would have a chance.

“Something’s happening, isn’t it?” Marianne asked.

“Yes,” Roslin said, feeling her dress laced securely laced, she moved to the dressing table.

“May I ask what?” her voice shook as she asked the question.

“An unexpected visitor, is all,” Roslin tried to smile in the mirror.

Marianne looked rather afraid, but she said no more as she took a brush to Roslin’s hair and began to run through it. Roslin wished she could find some comforting words for her, but she could not think to muster any that would sound convincing.

“What will you do?” Marianne asked her as she twisted her hair elegantly.

“My best,” Roslin told her honestly. “It is all I can do.”

Another knock came at the door as Marianne slid the pins into Roslin’s hair. Roslin called for them to come now she was dressed and presentable. She needn’t have worried too much, it was Catelyn, looking rather harried. Relations between Roslin and her good-mother had been rather strained since the incident with Theon, with Catelyn keeping mostly out of the way. It made Roslin unhappy, as she had always had a close relationship with her good-mother, but she was hopeful they could mend things.

“Catelyn,” she tried a smile.

“I heard the bells,” her good-mother returned slightly stiffly.

“Stannis has sprung a surprise visit upon us,” Roslin tried to sound calm and unaffected.

“Indeed,” Catelyn could not quite hide the shake in her voice. “Will we be entertaining him?”

“I hope so,” Roslin said meaningfully, and Catelyn nodded her understanding.

“Would you like me to attend?” she asked.

“If it pleases you, Catelyn, I would be glad of your support,” Roslin told her meaningfully.

“I cannot bear to think of Winterfell overrun again,” she was clearly pained.

“Nor can I, and I will do all I can think of to prevent such a thing happening,” Roslin insisted.

“I know you will,” Catelyn nodded. “I ought to prepare myself.”

“I can attend on you, my lady, if you wish?” Marianne offered.

“Thank you, that would be most welcome,” Catelyn managed a strained smile.

“Thank you,” Roslin murmured quietly to her niece, who nodded her head in return as she followed Catelyn from the room. With them gone, Roslin opened one of the drawers of her dressing table and carefully removed her crown from it. She had to be confident in her title. Show Stannis that she was his equal, more than that – his superior. She took a breath. First he would have to agree to the meeting. She prayed inwardly that he would.

A harsh knock on the door made her jump. She swallowed hard. “Come,” she called.

The door opened to reveal the Smalljon, and she slipped off her stool and approached him. He bowed his head at her approach. “Well?” she asked him. “What news? Shall I be entertaining, or have I brought out my finery for naught?”

“You shall be entertaining, my queen,” he replied.

She swallowed even harder before taking a deep, steadying breath.

“Well then, if you would be kind enough to lead the way,” she inclined her head.

The Smalljon obliged, leading the way down the hallways and steps to the grand parlour. The maids were already in there, setting the fires and replacing the candles. Roslin asked one of them to go down to the kitchens and have refreshments brought. The others she asked to speedily make the room ready for company. They obliged, the fire smoking and flaming to life within moments, as tapers were set to the new candles. With luck the room would heat quickly. She turned her attention back to the Smalljon.

“I would like you to fetch Ser Damon,” she told him. “Give him my apologies at the early hour, but I have need of him. The rest of the Queensguard are ordered to stay with my daughter, but I would not be without my Captain.”

“Yes, my queen, I will do so at once. Your brother will escort Stannis and his party to you when they make their arrival,” he told her.

“Thank you, my lord. I trust you will join us,” she said.

“Of course, my queen, if it please you,” he bowed before making his way from the room.

Roslin sat, then swiftly stood. She paced up and down as the maids continued their work. One of them met her eyes and smiled slightly. Roslin returned the smile, though it cost her a lot of effort. The minutes seemed to trickle by ever so slowly. Finally came a knock on the door. When she called for her visitor to come in she was pleased to see Ser Damon.

“I had thought to come when I heard the bells, forgive me that I did not, my queen,” he bowed.

“There is no need for forgiveness, you came when I called, Ser,” Roslin responded.

“What is to be done, my queen?” he asked.

“I am to meet with Stannis,” she told him. “I do not anticipate any trouble from him, but it would comfort me to know that you and your sword are present.”

“As you wish, my queen,” he bowed his head.

“How is Jeyne?” she asked, thinking conversation of a different matter might calm her pounding heart.

“She is well, my queen,” he smiled. “She grows more tired due to her condition, but try as I might I cannot get her to slow down with her work.”

“She is a blessing to us, given the absence of a Maester,” Roslin said. “However, I would not have her put to any unnecessary strain. You may tell her, when you return home, that my brother has accepted the position as Maester and even now should have begun his journey here.”

“I am delighted to hear it, my queen,” Ser Damon smiled.

She returned the smile as the door to the parlour opened. It was Catelyn, closely followed by the Smalljon. Roslin inclined her head to both of them. “Please, make yourselves comfortable,” she said. “Refreshments will soon be brought up from the kitchens.”

“Stannis will be here presently,” the Smalljon informed her, and she nodded.

They fell into silence then. Ser Damon melted into a far corner as Roslin resumed her pacing. Catelyn took a seat on one of the sofas, her stance stiff, and the Smalljon settled into one of the armchairs by the fire. He looked more relaxed that Catelyn, but Roslin could still see the tension in him.

When yet another knock came Roslin stopped dead. Her and Catelyn locked eyes for a moment, before Roslin found her voice. Thankfully it came out strongly and without shake, the door opening in the next moment. Olyvar entered, holding the door open for those following to enter. Roslin held her head high as Stannis made his appearance. She didn’t want to appear too cold, but nor did she want to appear too welcoming. The man had brought an army to her door after all.

He looked as serious and grim as ever, though perhaps a little thinner and greyer than before. As though he had been through a tremendous amount of recent stress. Perhaps his march down from the Wall had been a perilous one. Roslin knew that the snows had been falling rather thickly the further north one travelled. Behind Stannis came Ser Davos. Roslin was more relieved than she had thought to be at seeing him. However, her relief was short-lived as the third person entered.

In her haste and her shock she had forgotten all about the witch. Last time she had met with Stannis one of the conditions of their meeting had been that his red woman be kept well away. This time she had forgotten, and she realised in that moment how foolish she had been. Fear for her daughter gripped her heart and stomach tight like a vice. She cursed herself for the oversight, her eyes flickering towards Catelyn, whose face was a perfect mask, but whose eyes betrayed the same fear that had taken over Roslin.

“My lord,” Roslin found her voice, dipping a slight curtsey to Stannis.

“My lady,” he returned, and she heard the Smalljon stand behind her.

“The queen ought to be addressed as befits her station,” the Smalljon almost growled.

“Then his Grace has addressed her as he ought to,” the red woman commented.

“I don’t think we have been introduced,” Roslin said coldly, as the Smalljon made an angry noise.

“Perhaps because you denied me an audience last time you met with his Grace,” she retorted.

“Peace,” Stannis held his hand up and Roslin bit back her retort. It would do no good to bicker like a child. She wished to speak with Stannis, not exchange bitterness with his witch.

“I intended to speak with you, my lord,” Roslin looked to Stannis. “Without the interruption of your… _priestess._ Would you sit? Take some wine?” she gestured to the sofa opposite the one Catelyn was perched upon.

Stannis hesitated a moment before taking the seat, his eyes roving towards Ser Davos. Roslin watched his line of sight, nodding towards the Smalljon who moved to pour the wine. “Ser Davos,” she presented him with a warm smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, please, would you sit?”

“Thank you, gracious lady,” he bowed his head and moved to sit next to Stannis.

Roslin threw the most contemptuous look she could manage at the red witch before taking her place next to Catelyn. “Would you break bread?” she raised a brow at Stannis. He nodded. At the gesture she offered the plate with bread rolls upon it. Stannis took one, tearing off a large chunk before eating it slowly. “To peaceful negotiations,” Roslin raised her cup to Stannis and met his eyes.

“Peaceful negotiations,” he repeated, and they touched cups.

“How was your journey from the Wall?” Roslin asked conversationally.

“Arduous,” he responded wearily.

“Where are you headed, after Winterfell?” she asked him.

“That has yet to be decided,” he answered, his eyes flickering towards the red witch.

Roslin made no comment, instead taking a small sip of wine. She slid her eyes to Catelyn. Her good-mother took the hint, leaning forwards slightly to engage Stannis in conversation.

“I’d like to thank you, my lord,” Catelyn smiled, “for your coming to Casterly Rock to warn my son of the threat to his borders. Without your intervention the Wall may well have fallen, and the North may well have been overrun.”

“The fall of the Wall would have been to the detriment of all the kingdoms in the end,” Stannis said.

“Even so, you have my gratitude, and that of my son,” Catelyn spoke politely, but Roslin could hear the underlying hardness. The unspoken words. Yes, Robb may be grateful now, but he would not be any longer should Stannis make to move against Winterfell.

“I have still yet to meet this son of yours,” Stannis said. “Does he still maintain his title of king?”

“Of course,” Catelyn replied.

“Even now he has formed an alliance with the boy who claims to be Aegon Targaryen?” he asked.

“I thought you had ways of knowing such things?” Roslin raised a brow.

“You have a good memory,” he smiled without warmth.

“I do,” she agreed.

“As do I,” Stannis said, fixing his cold eyes on her. “I well remember our agreement – the meeting of the lords of all the kingdoms; that I promised to attend on your word. Can I assume that this meeting is no longer to take place?”

“Certainly it may still take place,” Roslin said. “Though I imagine it will be called and led by the King of the Southern Kingdoms, and what will be discussed will be decided by him. Circumstances have changed, my lord, you must know that.”

“Do you believe this boy to be true?” Stannis asked.

“We do,” Roslin responded, not looking away from him.

“For the sake of argument, let’s say I agree,” he took a sip from his cup. “What makes you believe he would be a better occupant of the Iron Throne than myself? He is just a boy. He was not even raised in Westeros. What can he know of our laws and customs?”

“He has been well taught,” Roslin said patiently. “He was raised knowing his birth-right. He is well educated and level headed. And as to what makes me believe he will make a better king than you? Well, the answer is simple. He will make a better king because he would _never_ persecute the innocent and besmirch the beliefs of the kingdoms he rules over. He respects the Gods, old and new, and would never seek to force his own beliefs upon anyone else.”

“You disapprove of my religion?” Stannis asked.

“No,” Roslin responded. “I have no quarrel with your belief or your God. My quarrel is with your actions against your own people who will not bow to your cause. Hundreds burned, more perhaps? How many more would you burn for the _crime_ of worshipping the only Gods they have ever known?”

“Westeros must be cleansed of false worship,” the red witch spoke up.

Roslin snapped her head towards her, before standing suddenly to face her. “How dare you?” she snarled. “You stand here, in my home and dare to insult my Gods and the Gods of my people?”

“Melisandre…” Stannis began warningly.

“You have no right, not when you have murdered innocent men, women and children. Not when you have ensnared a lord and seduced him into murdering his own brother and leading him down a heinous path of false persecution. You are no priestess, you are a _witch!_ ”

There were several sharp intakes of breath at that, but Roslin did not take her eyes from the red woman.

“You misunderstand me,” the witch spoke, and Roslin narrowed her eyes. The contemptuous look was gone now. An almost pleading look in her eyes.

“I don’t think so,” Roslin shook her head. “You have destroyed effigies of the Seven, burned our Septons and our Septas. Doubtless you would rip up the heart trees and burn them too. Worshippers of the old Gods and the Seven have lived in harmony for countless years, and you dare to threaten that? You have no respect for our Gods or our beliefs, so why in the seven hells would I ever want to hear you try and explain yourself?”

“If you would hear me, you may understand a little better,” she said.

“You cannot ensnare me, witch,” Roslin said dismissively.

“I do not wish to ensnare you, merely to speak with you, privately,” she said.

Roslin laughed, she couldn’t help it. “You must think me mad? Speak with you alone? Why, so you can summon another of your shadows to slit my throat the way you slit Lord Renly’s?”

“You have broken bread with his Grace. As I serve him, I can assure you, I will do you no harm,” the red woman told her calmly. Roslin stared at her. As much as she didn’t want to be alone with the woman, she could not deny that she was intrigued as to what she wanted to say to her – and her alone. She wondered if it was a trick, if Stannis was in on it. She glanced towards the man and saw that he looked confused more than anything. Ser Davos looked suspicious and wary. The Smalljon and Catelyn both shook their heads.

They would protest this, but Roslin needed to know. The curiosity was almost burning a hole in her. She glanced towards Ser Damon, and could have sworn her rolled his eyes. He, at least, had recognised her intention. 

“Catelyn,” Roslin spoke up. “Perhaps you could escort our party to the dining hall so they can break their fast properly. Doubtless everyone is hungry. I will join you all shortly, after I have had a private word with the priestess.” 

“Roslin, are you certain?” Catelyn asked warily.

“Yes, Ser Damon will be right outside,” Roslin said calmly. “If anything befalls me, he will be sure to make sure this woman’s blood flows as red as her robes. Won’t you, Ser Damon?”

“Naturally, my queen,” he said.

“Then, please,” she gestured to the door. “I will join you all shortly.”

Slowly. Reluctantly. They all rose up and began to trickle towards the door. Stannis grabbed the red woman’s upper arm on the way out and whispered something in her ear. She turned her head and inclined it to him, a slight smile on her face. Roslin wondered if he was ordering her death, or whether he was reminding the witch of the bread they had broken. She hoped it was the latter. Eventually Ser Damon filed out last, sending her a wary glance before he closed the door behind him.

“Well?” Roslin looked at the red woman expectantly. “What is it that is so urgent?”

“A matter of utmost importance,” she replied. “Where is Jon Snow?”


	17. XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long guys! My only excuse is real life, I can only apologise.
> 
> Anyway, if anyone is still out there waiting for another chapter - here it is!
> 
> Big thank you to all comments and kudos left in my absence.
> 
> I hope not to leave it so long again.
> 
> :)

* * *

**XVII**

* * *

 

 

“What business is it of yours?” Roslin countered at once.

“I have told you, it is a matter of utmost importance,” the witch responded.

“Then explain it to me,” Roslin said through gritted teeth.

“There is no time, I must speak with Jon Snow immediately,” she returned.

“Well, you cannot, he isn’t here,” Roslin said, and the woman looked dismayed. Roslin frowned. “What is Jon to you?”

“In short, he is everything,” the red woman said, and Roslin stared at her. Disgust bubbling in her stomach.

“What?” she asked, unable to keep the nauseated tone from her voice.

“You misunderstand me,” the witch shook her head. “Jon does not know, which is why I must speak with him. The flames…the visions…it all pointed to Stannis but I – I –”

“You what?” Roslin asked her slowly, suspiciously.

“I believe I have interpreted them wrong,” she seemed to sag, looking utterly defeated as she slumped down into a chair.

Roslin hesitated for a moment before she moved to retake her place on the sofa, perching herself opposite where the red woman was sat, her head now resting in one of her hands. Her face looked pained, and there was none of the confidence she had first appeared to possess when she had initially walked into the room. Roslin still despised her, but she could not deny that she was intrigued.

“When you speak of flames…and…visions..?” she coaxed.

“The Lord of Light speaks to me, through them,” the woman replied, and Roslin could tell that she truly believed that.

“And where does Stannis fit in with these _visions_?” Roslin asked her.

“I saw him as the prince who was promised, I believed that he would be the one to lead us against the long night. To defeat what is coming for us…” she looked despairing now.

“And now?” Roslin raised a brow.

“I believe I was wrong,” the witch admitted, shaking her head.

“So…” Roslin began, before she gasped. “You can’t mean…Jon?”

“Yes,” the witch confirmed, nodding her head.

Roslin’s own swam. Was this some game? Some trick? She couldn’t see how it could be, unless Stannis was planning to get at Robb by using his family? But then, he had all of his family here under this roof, why would he go after Jon? It made no sense. The only thing that would make sense was if this red woman actually believed what she was saying. But if she did, did that mean she knew? Did she know where Jon truly came from? Could she possibly know that he was, in fact, a prince?

“You think Jon is this, prince who was promised?” Roslin tried to sound scornful but her voice was shaking.

“Yes, and you need to tell me where he is, so I can pledge myself to him,” she sounded desperate. “I must serve the true prince, I must show him the way of the lord, the way through this darkness that is surely coming for us all.”

“Jon worships the Old Gods,” Roslin told her tartly.

“You think that matters now?!” the witch demanded.

“It mattered when you burned hundreds on Dragonstone,” she snapped back, and the older woman flushed scarlet.

“Please…” the red woman met her eyes and Roslin looked back uneasily.

“I need time to think,” Roslin said, abruptly standing up and heading for the door.           

“Of course,” she heard the witch say quietly as she marched to the door before wrenching it open and storming through, slamming it closed behind him.

“My queen?”

She jumped, having almost forgotten that Ser Damon had been standing guard outside. She took a deep breath to compose herself before turning to face him. “That woman is infuriating,” she tried to sound unaffected. “But she is no threat, you can go home, Ser Damon. I am sorry for summoning you so late.”

“It was my duty,” he returned. “Are you sure you’re alright, my queen?”

“I will be,” she smiled at him. “Now go, don’t let me keep you any longer. Give Jeyne my best.”

“I will, my queen, thank you,” he bowed shortly to her before he made his way down the hallway.

Roslin only took a breath when he had rounded the corner out of sight. At his disappearance she wanted nothing more than to be as far away from that red witch as possible, and so she marched down the hallway Ser Damon had just retreated down. When she rounded the corner there was no sign of him ahead and so she continued towards the entrance hall, rounding yet another corner and shrieking when she almost ran into someone.

“Forgive me, gracious lady, I am so sorry,” it was Ser Davos, and she took several calming breaths.

“It’s alright,” she managed, her hand against her heart as she composed herself.

“It’s just, I saw your guard leaving and I was worried when you didn’t follow,” he explained.

“Thank you for your concern,” she smiled at him. “I am perfectly well.”

“Where is she?” he asked uneasily, and Roslin seized upon his tone.

“You don’t trust her, do you?” she asked him bluntly, and he shook his head slowly. “Would you tell me something, honestly, Ser Davos?”

“As honestly as I can,” he returned.

“Are my family in danger?” she asked him.

“In my experience, gracious lady, what that woman wants more than anything is king’s blood,” Ser Davos lowered his voice and moved closer to her. “She was obsessed with getting her hands on one of Robert’s bastards, and when those plans were foiled, she even began speaking about the Princess Shireen.”

“To do what with?” Roslin asked him fearfully, a sick feeling knotted in her stomach.

“Fire is the cleanest death, she told me that once,” he said, disgust plainly showing on his face.

“How can you follow a man who would allow her to do such things?” Roslin asked him in astonishment.

“Stannis is a good man beneath it all, I have to believe he can come back,” Davos said.

“Stannis does not recognise Robb as king?” she asked him.

“No,” he agreed, looking uneasy.

“Then…my daughter?” she asked him, her fists clenching.

“Could be your husband might be recognised as king should it suit her need,” he told her.

“Then she must go, before she can even think of my daughter,” she said.

“It would be best,” he agreed. “But I do not see why she would leave, she is devoted to Stannis.”

“I believe I could make her go,” Roslin confided to him. “But you must swear to say nothing until she is leagues from here, do you swear?”

“I will happily swear,” he told her.

“And, when that time comes, will you swear to help me to convince Stannis that the right thing to do is bend the knee to Aegon and march south to join him?” she asked next, and he hesitated.

“If he is willing to be convinced,” he said slowly.

“That is enough for me to work with,” she nodded. “We have a deal?” she offered her hand.

“We have a deal,” Ser Davos agreed, grasping it for a moment.

“Good,” Roslin said, inwardly praying that Jon would forgive her for what she would do next.

* * *

Aegon jumped as the flap of his tent was wrenched aside, his stomach clenching for a moment before he relaxed on seeing Robb there. “Sorry,” his good-brother said, clearly noting Aegon’s hand on the hilt of his sword. He moved it away and smiled at the new comer.

“I wasn’t expecting you, has something happened?” he asked.

“Banners have been spotted,” Robb told him, and he raised a brow. “Dornish banners.”

“Right,” Aegon took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on the table nervously.

“They’re here,” Robb said firmly. “If no part of them believed you then they would not be here. I’m not saying it will be easy, but they’ve come, and it is not just a small party. They have brought an army of thousands with them.”

“Yes, you’re right,” he tried to compose himself, turning to bestow another smile on Robb.

“You just need to show them that you’re worthy,” Robb told him, holding his eyes. “If you can convince me and all the northern lords then it should not be too difficult for you. Though, I must confess I am rather ignorant to custom in Dorne.”

“From what I hear they are not so caught up in custom as the rest of Westeros,” Aegon said.

“What about honour?” Robb asked him, and he shrugged.

“I suppose we will soon find out,” he said with a sigh as a shout came from outside the tent that a party was entering the camp. “Will you greet them with me?”

“Of course,” Robb bowed his head in agreement.

“Thank you,” Aegon sighed, fidgeting slightly before he made his way towards the entrance of his tent. Robb walked a half step behind him and Aegon forced his head up as he walked towards where the new banners were waving. He swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the new arrivals, wondering how many of them were his kin. As he drew closer one of the men moved to dismount from his horse and Aegon came to a halt, waiting. He took a deep breath as the man came closer. Aegon could only assume that this was one of his mother’s brothers. One of the few family members he had left.

“You claim to be Aegon?” the man asked him bluntly as he came to a halt a few feet from him.

“I am,” Aegon met his eyes.

“I am Prince Oberyn of Dorne, my brother could not travel so I am here in his stead. Is there somewhere we can speak privately? I have many questions, and I am sure you do too,” he said.

“Of course,” Aegon replied. “But first, may I present Robb Stark, King in the North and of the Trident,” he gestured to his good-brother, and Robb inclined his head politely.

Oberyn appeared to stare at him for a long moment before he too inclined his head. “My sympathies,” he said slowly, “I remember well what they did – to your grandfather and your uncle. We did not fight on the same side, but I understand why your father chose the side he did. His fate was not kind.”

“No,” Robb agreed slightly stiffly. “It was not, but it will soon be avenged.”

“I have waited many years for the end of the Lannisters,” Oberyn was still staring at Robb. “I know you have fought many battles against them, won many. I respect that, and I respect that you understand there is much still to do.”

“Thank you,” Robb said, inclining his head again.

“Shall we?” Aegon spoke up then, gesturing towards the tent they used for council.

“Lead the way,” Oberyn gestured in a similar manner, and Aegon inclined his head in agreement before doing as he was bid. His nerves were slightly settled now, on hearing the way Oberyn had spoken to Robb, though he still expected many questions and objections.

“May I offer you some wine?” Aegon asked when they entered the tent, heading straight for the side table where one of the squires had refreshed the wine earlier in the day in anticipation of a meeting.

“Dornish?” Oberyn asked him, a small smile playing about his lips.

“I believe so,” Aegon answered, and he inclined his head. Aegon poured two cups then, somewhat surprised that his hands remained steady as he did so. When they were near full to the brim he moved back to Oberyn and offered him one of the cups.

“To truth,” Oberyn offered up the toast, and Aegon touched his cup with his own.

“To truth,” he agreed.

“I would have your truth,” Oberyn said after he had taken a long drink of wine.

“You doubt my claim,” it was a statement, not a question.

“My sister died trying to protect her children. She died knowing she had failed. That has haunted me since that very day,” Oberyn told him.

“My mother died knowing the boy who was murdered was not her son,” Aegon said, meeting his eyes.

“You look like a Targaryen, like Rhaegar. The man who shamed her,” Oberyn said.

“You mean with Lyanna Stark?” he asked.

“Elia loved him, loved her children. She was sick after having both of them, but she was fiercely protective, she would never have let Aegon or Rhaenys from her sight when the lions and the wolves were at the gates,” Oberyn said.

“Even to save their lives?” Aegon asked him with raised brows, and Oberyn scowled.

“What proof do you have?” Oberyn answered his question with another.

“Nothing save my appearance and a few trinkets Connington was given. I have his word, and the word of Varys, that I was swapped with a peasant boy and smuggled across the Narrow Sea,” he answered.

“Why there? Why not bring you to Dorne? To your family?” Oberyn demanded.

“Too close,” Aegon answered. “Where did Eddard Stark ride as soon as my father was dead?”

Oberyn didn’t answer, contenting himself with drinking more wine and gazing at him suspiciously.

“You would not have come if you were certain I was false,” Aegon said calmly.

“I was curious,” Oberyn shrugged. “I have not left Dorne in a long time, and there was a chance I could finally get justice for Elia. Of course I came, what else could I do?”

Aegon couldn’t help it, he laughed at that. At the realisation that there was absolutely nothing he could do to convince this man that he was who he said he was. All he had was his word, and it seemed that that was never going to be enough. Oberyn may well follow him as his best chance at besting the Lannisters and getting justice for his sister, but he would never accept him as his nephew. Aegon shook his head, moving to lift his cup to his lips when he caught sight of Oberyn’s face. He looked as though he had just seen a ghost.

“What is it?” Aegon asked him in concern.

“Elia,” his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Her smile. You have Elia’s smile…”

* * *

Stannis was in uproar. He was furiously searching Winterfell from top to bottom, all the while trying to maintain a façade of calm. Also, he had sent men out into his encampment, and they too were furiously searching. Summons had been sent. Ser Davos had even led a party of men out into the Wolfswood. All with one purpose – to find the red woman.

Roslin knew all of this because the Smalljon had quietly informed her. She had been unable to help smiling. He had come to her not long after dawn, just after she had settled down behind the desk in Lord Stark’s study – Robb’s study, she supposed it was now. There were missives to look over, and several letters she had to reply to. The Night’s Watch was asking for more men again. She had been pondering over how to respond to them when the Smalljon had come to her and told her about Stannis’ behaviour.

She didn’t explain to him why it had amused her so much, merely told him not to do anything to hinder his progress, and not to mention that he had told her about it. The Smalljon promised to do just that, and Roslin had seen no one for the rest of the day. Aside from a few trips to the nursery to see Bethany she had kept to the study and no one else had come to bother her. This was good. She had been counting on Stannis’ pride keeping him away from her until he had no other option. Likely the time was close, he would come to her and she would be incredibly helpful.

What would happen next though, she could not guess. She had hopes of what would happen, but no way to know whether she had any chance of them being fruitful. As darkness fell heavy outside she lit some more candles and pulled out another sheet of parchment, ready to write a letter to Robb. What the content would be would depend on Stannis. One of the servants had brought her a simple dinner, at her request, and it sat waiting with a flagon of wine on the side of the desk. Roslin eyed it, and then the door, before she moved her hand to take the quill from the inkwell, touching it to the page.

 _My dearest Robb,_ she began, before setting the quill back in the inkwell and setting the parchment aside and pulling her dinner towards her.

She tore some of the bread and ate slowly, her eyes fixed on the door. After a few mouthfuls she poured herself a cup of wine, taking a sip before picking at some of the meat on the plate. She continued her meal calmly, eating most of it and supping down half of her wine before there was a knock on the door. The smile couldn’t be helped, and she allowed herself a moment of triumph before fixing her features and calling for her visitor to enter.

As it turned out, she had two visitors – Ser Davos, who she smiled sweetly at, and Stannis himself, who she inclined her head politely to. “My lord, Ser Davos,” she rose up from her seat. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure – I thought our plans were to meet tomorrow morning.”

“Something…untoward, has happened,” Ser Davos said, and she could tell that he had chosen his words carefully. She raised a brow, gesturing for them to sit down as she lowered herself back down into her own seat.

“Indeed?” she looked between them, her face a picture of polite surprise.

“The Lady Melisandre appears to have disappeared,” Ser Davos elaborated.

“I see,” Roslin said calmly.

“Where is she?” Stannis snarled at her, and she raised her brow even higher. “She had an audience alone with _you_ , and now she is gone. What did you speak of? Where has she gone? What have you done with her?!”

“And which question would you like me to answer first?” Roslin asked him sweetly.

“Where is she?” Stannis glowered at her.

“Can I offer anyone any refreshment?” she asked, and he almost seemed to turn purple at her words.

“No, thank you,” Ser Davos bowed his head.

“No,” Stannis growled the refusal.

“Very well,” she took a sip of wine. “You wanted to know where the Lady Melisandre went…Well, I cannot answer that question entirely accurately as I have no idea _exactly_ where she is. Only that she was planning on riding south…”

“South?” Stannis appeared to be so shocked that he forgot to sound angry. “Why?”

“She’s looking for something,” Roslin told him, taking another sip of wine. “Or, someone, to be more precise, I suppose.”

“Who?” Stannis asked, looking utterly confused now.

“I believe she called him the prince who was promised,” Roslin shrugged her shoulders and took yet another sip of wine, watching Stannis’ flushed face pale to an almost grey.

“What?” his voice was little more than a whisper.

“I don’t really know,” Roslin swirled her finger around the edge of her cup slowly. “She was speaking about a lot of things that didn’t make much sense at all to me – but then, I suppose, we do worship very different Gods. She kept talking about this prince who was promised, how she had made a terrible mistake – how she must find him and pledge herself to him.”

“Who?” Stannis choked.

“I don’t know,” Roslin lied. “That was the most infuriating thing. I kept asking her, how was I supposed to help her find this _prince_ if she wouldn’t tell me his name. But she was stubborn, muttering on about the way of the light. She said he was a Northman, and that was all she would say. I told her, any Northman worth his salt would be with my husband, ready to attack King’s Landing, and that was that. She thanked me, and then she left. I found it all rather bewildering. So, has she gone then, and without even saying goodbye?”

Stannis looked horrified. Devastated. As though his world may well have just ended. Roslin almost felt sorry for him. She glanced at Ser Davos for a moment, and he nodded at her ever so slightly.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” she asked Stannis innocently, to no reply.

“The Lady Melisandre once proclaimed that Stannis was the prince who was promised,” Ser Davos told her what she had already been informed of, but she made sure to look astonished.

“How cruel,” Roslin said sympathetically. “Why do you suppose she would have done such a thing? Told such a terrible lie?”

“I can only guess,” Ser Davos said quietly.

“Hmm,” Roslin tapped her finger against her chin. “Perhaps she was just seeking out a man in a position of power, someone she hoped to manipulate to her own beliefs. Perhaps she imagined she could bend this man to her will if she told him _exactly_ what she wanted to hear.”

Stannis looked up at her then, anguish on his features. She stood again, poured a cup of wine and handed it across to him without asking. He took it without question or thanks and drained half of it down in one mouthful. Roslin kept her eyes on him the entire time.

“She must have been good,” she continued when Stannis lowered the cup. “I suppose she must have given you some proof of the powers she possessed, else why would you have let her burn the Gods? She convinced you that you were some promised prince who was _destined_ to lead the world into light. To prove how loyal to you she really was she even helped you kill your own brother.”

That had him raising the cup to his lips again, hand shaking.

“You burned effigies, but that wasn’t enough for her, was it?” Roslin went on remorselessly. “The people came next, all those who would not bow down and accept her new religious ideals. How could you let her do that? You were born and raised in the faith of the Seven, just as millions of others across Westeros were. Did you really think they would all follow this new God, just like that? Do you really think they would follow a man who would burn them for keeping their faith?! A man who would allow his own nephews to be sacrificed to the flames?! A man who’s closest advisor was a witch who had designs on burning his own daughter?!”

She slammed her fist against the desk as she finished, and Stannis flinched.

“Would you have let her?” Roslin whispered, not taking her eyes from him.

“No,” Stannis said weakly.

“Are you sure?” she continued. “Even if she promised it would win you the Iron Throne?”

“Shireen is more to me than any throne, any crown,” Stannis met her eyes.

“I hope you mean that,” Roslin held his eyes. “I hope that little girl knows that.”

Stannis averted his eyes from her then, and she shook her head, retaking her seat and taking a long drink of wine. She would give him a moment, a moment to really think about what she had just said before she told him what she wanted him to do next. If he was clever, if he wanted to survive this war and beyond it, then he would listen to her.

“I believe Aegon Targaryen to be true, and I believe him to be the king the southern kingdoms needs,” Roslin spoke up after several minutes. “You would be wise, my lord, to take your men from here and march south to join him in his siege of the Capital. Aegon is merciful, he will welcome you on bended knee. If you are gracious enough he may even offer you Storm’s End – I would even put it to my husband that he should persuade him of it. This is your only chance now, my lord. I suggest you take it. Go south, and give up your claim to this throne. Aegon would destroy you in open war. Think of your daughter – of her future. What would be better for her? Being the daughter of a prosperous lord, or the daughter of a fanatical traitor who ended up with his head on a spike?”

“You go too far,” Stannis said, standing up and glowering down at her.

“I told you the truth,” she snapped back. “I told you what that woman really was. Doubtless I am not the first you have heard it from,” she nodded her head towards Ser Davos. “But you would not listen before. I pray you listen now, my lord, because without you,” she shrugged. “Well, without you, the Baratheon name will die.”


	18. XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newness for you all!
> 
> So glad I haven't kept you all waiting too much this time around.
> 
> Thanks all for the kudos and the comments on the last chapter, and all the previous. It is much appreciated.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this new one1
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Jon did not think he had ever been more nervous than he was now. Not when he had been a child and been terrified of being in trouble after accidently cutting open Robb’s head. Not when the King and all the court had come to Winterfell. Not when he had set out for the Wall, when he had gone beyond the Wall and seen the walkers with his own eyes. The fight against the wildlings now felt like nothing. Discovering the truth about his mother was nothing. Telling Lady Stark was nothing. This, now, riding slowly towards the banners in the distance was the most gut-wrenching fear he had ever felt in his life.

Soon he would be upon them, amongst the men of the North and the Trident, and those who had moved to join Aegon now he had come into the open. He took a deep breath and urged his horse to move more quickly. If he didn’t get a move on then he was likely to turn around and go right back the way he had come. Back to the Wall. Forget it all. Gods. This was too much. How was he supposed to stand before these two kings and tell one that he was no longer his brother, and the other that he was now his? None of it seemed real. Despite finally knowing who his mother really was after all the years of longing, sometimes he wished he had never discovered the truth.

“Halt! Who goes there?!”

One of the periphery guards had called out to him, and Jon swallowed hard before answering.

“Jon Snow, I am here to see the king, I have news,” Jon told him, and he nodded.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he bowed his head and moved aside so Jon could make his way through.

Somehow he managed to thank the man as he passed by, thinking that he looked somewhat familiar. Perhaps he was from Winterfell, or perhaps even one of the surrounding towns that he and Robb used to visit with their father. That was back when things were simpler, back when Robb was still learning to be a lord, and Jon was just allowed to come along for the journey. He cherished those times. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to think of them being tainted. Lord Stark had always treated him as his own son. He must have had love for him, why else would he have taken him? Kept his sister’s secret for all those years?

He opened his eyes, now coming to the heart of camp where there were three large tents erected. The largest had two banners flying above it – the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, and the familiar direwolf of House Stark. He smiled slightly despite his nerves, noting the other two tents that clearly showed which of the two kings each belonged to. Jon dismounted, looking around a moment before a squire came to take the reins. He thanked the young man before looking between the tents and wondering where to go first.

After a moment he walked towards the one he knew to be Robb’s, halting just outside and calling for him. He received no reply, and so moved next to the tent in the middle which he assumed was used for planning. Again, he received no reply, and this time he moved the flap aside slightly just to confirm there was no one present. There was not, and he sighed heavily. That left him no choice. He would have to approach the tent with the Targaryen banners, and hope that Robb was present with Aegon.

He had to check himself when he reached the tent, as he almost called out for Robb again. Instead he cleared his throat before somehow finding his voice. “Your Grace?” he hated how nervous and uncertain he sounded.

“Come,” the voice that replied was strong and confident, and did not belong to Robb.

Jon took a steadying breath before doing as he was bid, pulling the flap aside and stepping into the tent. Aegon stood as Jon entered, confusion on his features. There was no such confusion on the face of his companion, though, and Jon could have laughed with relief as Robb stared at him with wide eyes. He only seemed stunned for a moment, though, in the next second striding towards Jon and gripping him in a fierce embrace.

“What in the name of the Gods are you doing here?” the familiar voice asked as he was released.

“Bit nippy at the Wall, fancied a change from all that snow,” Jon tried to joke and Robb grinned.

“By the Gods, it is good to see you,” Robb stepped back, shaking his head slightly as he continued to smile widely. “But where are my manners? Aegon, this is my brother, Jon. And, Jon, this is the King of the Southern Kingdoms, and our good-brother, Aegon.”

“A pleasure,” Aegon stepped forwards with his hand outstretched.

“The pleasure is mine,” Jon said automatically, taking the offered hand and shaking it firmly.

Their eyes met for a moment, and Jon swallowed hard. Aegon seemed to frown slightly, as though he could sense the apprehension.

“So, why have you really come all this way?” Robb asked, sounding more serious now.

“I have – news,” Jon said awkwardly, looking between the two men.

“What news?” Robb asked. “From Winterfell? Is it Roslin? Bethany? My mother -?”

“Everyone at Winterfell was in perfect health when I left,” Jon interrupted before Robb could continue worrying himself. “Here,” he reached into his doublet. “Roslin gave me this letter for you, perhaps she can put your mind at rest.”

“Thank you,” he clearly breathed a sigh of relief, taking the letter. “Then, what is it?”

“I discovered who my mother is,” Jon said. “Was, I should say. It – well – it came as quite a shock and…well, it changes – things…”

“How, was she highborn?” Robb asked him.

“I don’t think I should be intruding on this, I will leave you,” Aegon spoke before Jon could.

“No,” Jon halted him before he could take more than a few steps. “No, this concerns you, your Grace.”

“Aegon,” he smiled. “We are kin, after all.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed, meeting his eyes. “Closer kin that you or I could have ever imagined.”                     

“What are you talking about?” Robb asked, both he and Aegon frowning deeply.

“My mother was…Lyanna Stark,” Jon somehow managed to get the words out.

“What?” Robb’s face fell.

“Do you mean to say…?” Aegon was staring at him.

“My father was…was…” Jon stammered.

“Rhaegar,” Robb said, his voice dull. Jon could only nod, his voice deserting him now. Somehow he managed to raise his head to look Robb in the eye, the man he had always called his brother staring back at him for a long moment. Jon blinked, and it seemed to snap Robb back to reality. He shook his head, staring at Jon for another moment before he shook his head once more, excusing himself in a rather faint manner before striding from the tent.

“Robb?!” Jon found his voice, turning to call after him but finding him already gone.

“Is what you say true?” Aegon drew his attention back to him.

“I believe so,” Jon returned to him, and he seemed to stagger back into the table.

“I – Gods – I,” he stammered, looking around as though for inspiration. “Drink?”

* * *

Aegon saw Jon nod, somehow, since his vision seemed to have blurred somewhat. He staggered away from the table as though he was a man who had already been in his cups. Moving to the side table he managed to take several deep breaths and try and make sense of what Jon had just told him. Just a few moments ago Jon had just been another member of Robb’s family – and by extension, his – that he had yet to meet. Now…well, now he was stood before him telling him that they were brothers by blood. It made his head spin.

He poured the wine with shaking hands before gathering up his courage and turning to hand one of the cups to Jon. Jon took it from him with a faint thanks before the pair of them drank for several long moments in unison. Eventually Aegon realised that he would have to speak, and so he lowered his cup and took a breath before opening his mouth.

“This has come as quite a shock,” Aegon said.

“Believe me, I know the feeling,” Jon said wryly, running his free hand through his hair.

“Sit, please,” Aegon had never felt more awkward, gesturing towards one of the chairs.

“Thank you,” Jon sounded as awkward as Aegon felt as he moved to sit stiffly.

“I’m sure Robb will be back,” Aegon tried. “I imagine it’s the…uhm…the shock.”

“Yes,” Jon said faintly, nodding his head before raising his cup back to his lips.

“I only met my uncle a few days ago,” Aegon said, unsure why.

“And now a long lost brother turns up,” Jon snorted.

“Well, I should be used to strange occurrences by now,” Aegon sighed. “I am supposed to be dead, after all.”

Jon chuckled nervously at that, and Aegon smiled slightly before taking a sip of his own wine.

“You’ve come a long way,” he said suddenly. “You must be hungry, shall I call for some food?”

“I’m not sure I could eat,” Jon returned. “But thank you.”

“Right,” Aegon said, nodding his head.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said. “Coming here with all of this when you are preparing for the greatest fight of your life.”

“Waiting is more what we’re doing now,” Aegon said. “I don’t think we could be any more prepared – we are just waiting for the right moment.”

“I bet you wish it could just be over,” Jon said.

“I do,” Aegon agreed.

“Can I ask you something?” Jon sounded nervous again.

“Please,” Aegon invited, taking the seat opposite him.

“Why did you come back?” he asked. “I mean…you had a life out there, across the Narrow Sea, did you ever just think it might just be easier to stay there? Forget about the throne?”

“And why would I want to do that?” Aegon asked him suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

“It’s a lot of responsibility, so many lives depending on your success. Even more so once you take the throne. I imagine it may have been tempting just to walk away from it all at times, that’s all,” Jon said.

“And leave the path clear for another, perhaps?” Aegon raised a brow, and Jon shrugged. “I suppose you have a claim of your own now, is that it?”

“No!” Jon exclaimed, eyes wide as he turned them on him. “No, Gods no. That is the last thing in this world I want. You know, when I left the Wall they were about to choose a new Lord Commander. Some of the men had been whispering my name, and it terrified me. That is just the Wall, just a few hundred men. How could I be responsible for millions?”

“You’d have people to advise you, friends in the North,” Aegon watched him carefully.

“When I heard Robb had marched to war I ached to join him,” Jon said quietly, keeping eye contact. “I ran from the Wall, only my brothers managed to drag me back. I suppose it is a good thing, no doubt I would have been caught and died a traitor’s death. Robb himself would have had to take my head had I managed to reach him, it would have been his duty. I did not think of that in my grief. I could only think of reaching my brother and helping him save our father. I envied that Robb could march and do _something_ , but when word came that he had been made king…” Jon tailed off for a moment, shaking his head. “Well, when I heard that it was the first time in my life I had not been envious of him.”

“Why did you envy him?” Aegon asked him just as quietly, his suspicion abated.

“We are the same age, Robb and I,” Jon told him. “We were raised together, fa – Lord Stark – insisted on it. We had our lessons together, learned to ride together, learned how to spar together… In everything Robb was better than me. He was better in his lessons than I was, he knew all the house sigils in the seven kingdoms before I knew half of them. He mastered riding before I did, and he was better in the tiltyard. Ser Rodrik was always so proud of his progress. His mother adored him. The way Lord Stark looked at him… Gods, I would always wish that once, just once, he would look at me that way. But he never did…”

“That you saw,” Aegon said, and he snorted.

“Robb was his heir, his first born son,” Jon said. “His true son.”

“And do you think Robb ever saw the way his father looked at him?” Aegon asked softly. “Most times we cannot see the most obvious things in front of us. Likely you could not see the way Lord Stark looked at you. I don’t doubt, if you are half the man I have heard Robb describe to me, that Lord Stark would have been proud of you. He may not have said it, but that does not mean it wasn’t true. He raised you as his son, an equal to his own children. If that does not show you that he loved you then I do not know what would.”

“Sansa was right,” Jon chuckled, wiping at his eyes as he turned his face away.

“About what?” Aegon asked, a slight frown creasing at his forehead.

“You are a good man,” Jon answered him, and he felt tears sting his eyes for a moment, though he quickly blinked them back.

“She’s kind to say that, and you are kind to repeat it,” Aegon said. “Though, if I am to prove myself a good man then you will have to excuse me a moment. Would you wait here?”

“I have nowhere else to go,” Jon said drily, and Aegon nodded before rising up from his chair.

He placed his empty cup down on the table before he turned back to Jon who was half slumped in his own seat. Aegon sighed, biting on his lip for a moment before he stepped forward and clapped his hand on Jon’s shoulder for a moment. “Help yourself to all the wine you want,” he murmured. “And my squire is outside should you change your mind about food. I’ll try and be as quick as I can.”

* * *

Robb stared into the fire as the sun set around him, the darkness closing in slowly. The men were giving him a wide berth. Clearly it was obvious what kind of mood he was in. Even Grey Wind was avoiding him – not that Robb could blame him. He did not even want to be in his own company, but he could not escape it unfortunately. Jon’s words were still echoing over and over in his head. He could not stop hearing his brother telling him that he was no longer his brother. They were still kin, but it just felt wrong that he was no longer his brother. How could his father have kept something so important from them all?

Not that he didn’t understand it. He could understand it all too well, the desire his father must have felt to keep Jon safe. Robert Baratheon’s hatred of the Targaryens was well known. He would have had Jon murdered had he known the truth. Gods. Robb dropped his head into his hands, trying to get his head to stop pounding for one moment. Gods. Why had his father never told anyone? Why had he never told mother? Robb groaned, lifting his head up from his hands. He felt shame rising in him. He should not have walked away like that. As terrible as he was feeling it must be a thousand times worse for Jon. One thing had changed from him, everything had changed for Jon.

He slipped his hand inside his doublet as he tried to work up the courage to go back to Aegon’s tent and apologise for his actions. In his turmoil he had almost forgotten about the letter from Roslin. He assumed his wife must know, likely her letter would be full of words cautioning him against doing exactly what he had just done. Steeling himself, he snapped the seal and unfurled the scroll, casting his eyes down to read her neat script.

_My dearest Robb,_

_By now I assume Jon has told you his news, and doubtless you are sat alone brooding. I hope you have not said anything you will regret –_

Robb snorted, shaking his head. She knew him too well. At least he could promise her that he had not said anything he should not have done.

_Whatever has been said, just remember you can take it back. No matter what, Jon is still your brother, and you will always love one another as brothers. Brothers can forgive one another anything – well, as long as they are not Baratheons, of course._

_Just keep your head and let him know that it changes nothing between you. I know it will take both of you a long time to get used to it, but you will get there. Just remember that you need one another, and that you are not just brothers, but best friends._

_I will say no more now, Jon needs to be on his way soon. I will only promise that everyone here is well. Bethany has grown again and is as strong and healthy as always. Jon will doubtless fill you in properly on all that has been happening at Winterfell. I will write to you again soon. Hurry up and win the Iron Throne for Aegon so you can come back to us._

_I love you. Stay strong, my love,_

_Roslin_

There were tears welling in his eyes before he could stop them, and he pressed his eyes tight together to stop them from spilling out. He took several long, deep breaths before he managed to raise his head, jumping slightly when he saw Aegon stood there on the other side of the fire.

“Are you ready to come back?” his good-brother asked seriously. “Jon needs you.”

* * *

Jon looked up as the flap of Aegon’s tent was pulled aside. It was not just him who walked through though, Robb was right behind him, looking sheepish. Jon stood, his mouth opening to speak though he had no idea at all of what he was planning on saying. Robb shook his head, coming closer and embracing Jon for the second time. This time it was all the more fierce, and though he said nothing Jon knew that everything was well between them. The relief he felt at the knowledge was indescribable, and as he pulled away he made sure to meet Robb’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Robb told him sincerely, and he shook his head.

“There is no need, I understand,” Jon said. “In fact, you reacted far better than I thought you would.”

“Gods I’m sorry,” Robb said again. “The journey here must have been hard enough without having to worry about my reaction as well.”

“Well, it wasn’t just your reaction,” Jon admitted, his eyes sliding to Aegon.

“Well,” Aegon smiled slightly. “I have precious little family, it would be foolish of me to turn you away, don’t you think?”

Jon knew he was forcing a jape and that he was nowhere near as comfortable with this situation as he was appearing to be. It would take him a long time to accept the fact that Jon was his brother, but Jon was now at least hopeful that one day he would fully accept it. He didn’t know if they would ever love one another the way he and Robb did, but for now at least he had hope. A hope he did not dare to have on the way here.

“Thank you,” Jon said, and he hoped that Aegon understood that it was for everything.

“Now,” Aegon clapped his hands together. “Shall we call for some food? Jon, is there still some wine left or will I have to call for more of that too?”

“Probably some more,” Jon admitted sheepishly, and Aegon seemed to smile more easily.

“I thought as much,” Aegon said. “If you’ll excuse me for another moment I will go and make sure some food is called for.”

Both Jon and Robb thanked him, and he left the tent, the flap falling back into place behind him. Jon looked at Robb then, uncertain of what he should say, but it seemed Robb was willing to break the silence first this time.

“So, what do you think of him?” Robb asked.

“I can see why you allied with him,” Jon said. “And why Sansa seems to care so deeply for him.”

“She convinced me before he did,” Robb confessed. “Though, since we had to leave our wives behind we have had little choice but to get to know one another. He’s a good man, I can appreciate that now, and I believe he will make a good king.”

“I suppose that is what matters the most,” Jon commented, and Robb nodded.

“You’ll always be my brother, you know that, don’t you?” Robb asked him quietly.

“And you will always be mine,” Jon returned, and Robb bowed his head a moment.

Neither of them seemed certain of what to say next, and Jon was grateful when Aegon returned. The fair man sent them a swift smile, placing a new flagon of wine on the table before taking a seat next to Robb and directly opposite Jon. Aegon met his eyes briefly as he moved to pour three cups of wine and Jon suddenly remembered what Sansa had said to him before he had departed Winterfell.

“What shall we drink to?” Aegon asked when the three cups were before them all.

“Family?” Robb suggested.

“Yes,” Jon said. “But may I add something?”

“Of course,” Aegon said.

“Before I left Winterfell, Sansa gave me a message to relay to you,” he met Aegon’s eyes. “I don’t suppose she would mind very much if Robb hears it too. She wanted me to tell you that you are to become a father.”

“What?” Aegon’s eyes were wide, his face a picture of disbelief.

“She is perfectly well, and trying to keep it concealed from those who aren’t kin,” Jon assured him.

“By the Gods,” he could see that Aegon’s eyes were welling with tears.

“That is certainly something to drink to,” Robb managed, though he too looked stunned.

“Yes,” Aegon blinked his eyes. “I am truly blessed today, with a brother and a child. Thank you, Jon, for bringing me this news. Let us drink – to family, and to the future.”

* * *

He walked away from the tent, unable to believe exactly what he had heard. A brother? A child? How could this be? He had heard that Jon Snow had been seen arriving in camp, and he had gone to Aegon’s tent to greet the newcomer. He had assumed there would be some news brought by the bastard of Winterfell. This had not been the news he had been expecting. Though his mind was reeling he could piece it together all too easily. Why had Rhaegar never told him?

Now what? What did this mean? For too long he had been suspicious of how close Aegon was growing to the Starks. He was always in council with Robb Stark, had been far too generous in allowing him to keep the North and the Riverlands. He had warned him, warned him so many times about the dangers of showing the Northmen too much favour. Now this. As if being tied to the Starks through marriage wasn’t bad enough – now this. A brother. A brother by blood. A brother who had been raised by the Starks his entire life. Having heard of Jon Snow there could be no doubting his loyalty.

It was too late now. There was nothing he could do to stop Aegon being completely ruled by these people. He would end up Robb Stark’s puppet, and the worst thing was that he would not even know it. He blamed himself, partly. He had been the one who had been so desperate to set sail that he had pushed for the marriage between Aegon and the Stark bitch. Now he was reaping the seeds that he himself had sewn, and Aegon was just far too naïve and blinded by his infatuation with the Starks to ever realise it now.

No, it was time for drastic action. He had devoted his life to Aegon, as Rhaegar would have wanted him to, but the boy had grown to disappoint him. He was not ruthless enough nor clever enough to keep the kingdoms he had not thrown away together. Westeros needed a ruler who would invoke fear and unite the Seven Kingdoms once more as Aegon the Conqueror had done. There was only one thing to do now. Admit he had failed here. Admit that he had backed the wrong dragon.


	19. XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise again for the wait, my excuse is a lot on at work, and I'm also busy growing a human haha! 
> 
> Big thanks to those who have commented in my absence, your kind words really kick me into writing again, I should come and read them more often to motivate me!
> 
> Anyway, I am going to try my very best to get the next chapter out more quickly than this one came (I know I've said that before but I really am feeling motivated with this story right now!) 
> 
> Just, again, thank you thank you thank you all who have commented and left kudos!
> 
> Much love :)

 

Roslin stood above the gatehouse, looking down into the courtyard where Stannis’ men were preparing to depart. Most of what was left of the last Baratheon’s army was already outside the walls of Winterfell, only a band of fifty were within the walls themselves. Roslin knew they had been kept a close eye on, no doubt that would account for the wary looks they were casting about as they awaited their leader. She glanced to the figure at her side for a moment, pleased to see the relaxed features adorning her face.

It had been a real struggle, but in the end Roslin had prevailed in convincing Stannis to leave his daughter here in her care. Partly, she would admit, it was good sense to have a hostage should Stannis think to do something foolish and act against Robb and Aegon. Though, she could not deny that she felt the girl would be far better off here at Winterfell than marching with her father’s armies. While Roslin could see that Stannis cared for his only child, the same could not be said of his wife. Selyse was a hard-faced, cold woman, who didn’t seem able to show the least bit of affection towards Shireen.

Roslin thought it a shame. The girl was sweet in nature and very clever. If nurtured in the right way she was in no doubt that Shireen could grow up to be a great woman. She would be cared for here, Roslin had assured Stannis of that. The man had relented in the end, though Roslin did suspect that Ser Davos had had a hand in swaying his decision. Roslin liked him immensely, and while she did not entirely trust Stannis, she felt she had a true friend and ally in Ser Davos. His support of her during the whole debacle with the red woman had sealed her approval.

Nothing had been heard of her, for which Roslin was glad. She still felt guilt that she had told the witch where to find Jon, but she had had precious little choice. Jon would have had a significant head start on the woman, and would no doubt have reached Robb and Aegon by now. He would be safe there, she had to believe that. Despite having little to no trust in the red woman and her despicable ways, Roslin could not help but believe that she did not mean Jon any harm.

As for Stannis, well, she could not be certain about him. She had advised him what best to do, and in the days since they had not spoken of it again. He was courteous to her, but not warm in the way Ser Davos was. She had a quiet hope that Stannis would do the right thing and support Aegon. Already she had sent word to Robb suggesting that Stannis may bend the knee if Storm’s End were returned to the Baratheon name. She did not think it was asking too much. Things would return to how they were before the Rebellion, with the exception of the North and the Riverlands now being under Stark rule exclusively.

Gods, she hoped the harmony between the Northern and Southern kingdoms would remain long after Robb and Aegon were gone. She shuddered to think what would happen should relations shatter. The thought of her children, or her children’s children being caught up in another war like this was unthinkable. They would be kin, bound forever one way or another, through Jon and through the marriage of Sansa and Aegon. She imagined that years from now there would be more marriages. Another Northern princess sent south to become queen, or perhaps even a southern princess sent to be a Northern queen.

Roslin shook her head slightly, pulling herself back from the future to focus once more on the present. The war was not yet won. There was much still to do. Perhaps victory would come easier with more support. She eyed Stannis as he walked out of the keep, silently willing him to do the right thing and bend the knee to Aegon. Ser Davos followed him out, a fond look on his face as he looked around Winterfell. This may be the last time any of them would be here, though there was no telling what the future may hold. If all went as Roslin hoped, a Baratheon host would one day return to reclaim Lady Shireen.

She glanced down at the young girl again, seeing her gazing down at her father. Stannis looked up, as though sensing his daughter’s eyes on him. His features softened as he looked at her, a ghost of a smile on his face as he came to the side of his horse. A moment later his eyes slid to Roslin’s. Surprisingly, his features did not harden, instead he held her gaze for a long minute before nodding his head curtly. She bowed her own in return, and as though in response to her action he mounted his horse and called out the order to depart.

Ser Davos hastily pulled himself up onto his own mount in response to the call, his eyes finding Shireen and Roslin as he kicked his horse into action. A wide smile came to his face, and he waved cheerily at the girl. Shireen waved back, and Roslin offered him a smile. She would miss Ser Davos, he would have made an excellent addition to her counsel. Still, she had pushed Stannis enough with persuading him to leave his daughter behind. She doubted very much that he would have been further persuaded to leave his most trusted advisor behind as well.

“Where will my father go now, my queen?” Shireen spoke up gently and shyly from her side.

“I cannot say, my lady,” Roslin answered honestly, slightly surprised at the use of her title. Had Shireen been instructed to recognise her as queen, or had she done so of her own volition? “I can only hope he will join the right cause, and be justly rewarded for it.”

* * *

Robb’s stomach was growling as he dropped down by the fire next to Jon, who was already demolishing a plate of his own. “Best eat that quickly, or I am liable to snatch it from you,” he commented, and his brother grinned at him, though his mouth was still half-full.

“There will be a plate ready in a moment, your Grace,” the cook had evidently heard his comment. “With extra bacon, if it please you,” she added.

“It would please me immensely,” Robb returned.

“You’re late,” Jon commented as he swallowed down the last of his breakfast.

“Yes,” Robb agreed tiredly. “Aegon’s scouts returned just after dawn, with an extensive report.”

“Did they find him?” Jon asked.

“The trail went cold at the coast,” Robb replied. “Aegon is worried that he may have gone back across the Narrow Sea. I spent a good hour after the scouts were finished trying to reassure him that we are still in the best position.”

“Why would he go back across the Narrow Sea?” Jon looked confused. “From what Aegon has told me, the man was as a father to him. Why would he abandon him now when he is so close to claiming the Iron Throne? It makes no sense.”

“No,” Robb agreed, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “I have to confess it has been troubling me. Connington was devoted to Aegon, perhaps a little too devoted. I know he never truly approved of me, or the severing of the North and the Riverlands – but even so, he seemed to have made his peace with it, since it was decided so long ago. I cannot think what would have made him flee now – thank you,” he added, nodding to the cook and taking his plate of food.

“I wonder…” Jon pondered slowly as Robb tucked into his breakfast, “I wonder if it has anything to do with my arrival – or if it is just a coincidence?”

“I wondered that myself,” Robb replied after swallowing several mouthfuls. “It does seem suspicious, but I have not yet put it to Aegon. I would be loath to turn him against you now, when you are only just getting to know one another. Connington is a suspicious man, having heard word that you were in camp, more so, in conversation with the king, he may well have eavesdropped on our conversation.”

“And not enjoyed what he heard – evidently,” Jon sighed heavily. Robb nodded his agreement, turning his attention back to his breakfast as Jon worried his bottom lip, obviously thinking hard about what he had just been told. “You don’t think…” he began, trailing off.

“Think what?” Robb asked, his voice muffled as he spoke with his mouth full.

“That he may be thinking of pledging his allegiance to another Targaryen?” Jon spoke quietly.

“That’s exactly what I have begun to think,” Robb replied.

“Have you told Aegon?” Jon glanced around as he enquired.

“No,” Robb sighed. “But I suppose I will have to.”

“Yes,” Jon agreed, “and now may just be your chance.”

Robb looked up at Jon’s words, seeing the man himself striding towards them. A squire approached before Aegon could join them, handing a letter to Robb. He thanked him distractedly, eyes still on Aegon as he came to sit opposite them, his eyes tired and troubled. This was the last thing they needed now they were so close to launching an assault on the Capitol. A distracted man would be far more likely to make mistakes.

“Do you think I ought to send men across the Narrow Sea?” Aegon wasted no time in getting to the point.

“He is too far ahead, your men are of far more value here,” Robb told him, as he had told him before, snapping open the seal of his letter.

“Is that from Winterfell?” his action seemed to have snapped Aegon from Connington for the moment.

“Yes,” Robb said, scanning the letter, feeling two sets of eyes on him as he read. When he came to the end he smiled wryly at his wife’s shrewdness. Really, he did not know what he had done to be blessed with such a loving and cunning woman. “Everyone is well,” he assured the two watching men. “Roslin has been working her magic once more.”

“How?” Aegon asked him, half curious and half hopeful.

“She believes Stannis may be riding this way to bend the knee,” he told them, receiving disbelieving stares in return. “More so, she has secured us insurance – in the form of Stannis’ only daughter, the Lady Shireen.”

“It’s a shame you’re so attached to her,” Aegon quipped. “She would be an asset indeed to my small council.”

Robb couldn’t help but laugh at that, and Jon snorted in amusement at his side. “Most unfortunate for you,” Robb agreed, “but I would not part with her for the world. At least you know I will be well counselled in the North. Besides, I am sure Sansa will be avidly learning her tricks, you will be well served indeed.”

“Quite,” Aegon agreed, as Jon nudged Robb in the ribs slightly with his elbow, inclining his head towards Aegon with a rather insistent widening of his eyes. Robb sighed, and Aegon clearly noticed the interaction, frowning slightly. “What is it?” he asked, a slight edge to his voice.

“Jon and I were talking, about Connington,” Robb confessed. “I wonder…” he hesitated slightly, wondering how best to phrase his concerns. “I wonder, have you perhaps considered the possibility that he may have sailed back to Essos to seek out another to ally himself with?”

“Daenerys,” Aegon nodded heavily.

“Well, yes,” Robb said awkwardly.

“She would ask him about me, surely, do you think he would deny my legitimacy?” Aegon added.

“That would depend on his purpose for going,” Robb replied.

“If his intentions were good he would have told Aegon he was leaving,” Jon said. “He would not have gone without permission. We must assume the worst.”

“He’s right,” a rich voice came from behind them as Aegon dropped his head into his hands and began massaging his temples.

Robb turned his head slightly, seeing that Prince Oberyn was clearly intent on joining the conversation. The Dornishman did not wait for an invitation, moving round the fire and taking a seat next to his nephew, who finally raised his head again.

“What do I do?” Aegon asked, the vulnerability beaming from him.

“You continue as you have been doing,” Oberyn told him firmly. “You have managed very well without Connington’s council. You have been clever, by refusing his demands you have kept your alliance with the North intact, and drawn further support from across many of the kingdoms.” 

“And now Stannis may be joining us,” Robb added. “You have been doing so well, Aegon. Don’t start doubting yourself now. I know he was as a father to you, but you are a man grown now, not a child. You can make your own decisions, and you have made them well so far. Don’t falter now, not when we are so close.”

“Take the Capitol, you will be in an even stronger position to defend against any invasion from Daenerys there,” Jon added.

“Perhaps you could write to her,” Robb suggested. “Warn her of Connington’s coming. She may thank you for it, after all, why would she want an ally who so easily turns his back on the man he has raised as a son?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Aegon said, nodding. “I could make my offer of peace, of Dragonstone?”

“Yes,” Oberyn agreed. “But make sure you make it plain you will yield no more. You cannot appear to be afraid of her, Aegon, you must appear to be afraid _for_ her. Connington is clearly losing his senses. I cannot deny that he was a great man in his day, but I fear the sun set on him many moons ago. He cannot be trusted, he is dangerous – you have to make that plain to her.”

“I will,” Aegon said, the steely determination back in his eye now. “You’re right, all of you are right. Thank you, for your counsel, at least I know there are still men here that I can trust.”

* * *

Catelyn sat by the fire, trying to concentrating on her needlework. It was difficult to keep her mind focused on the task, as her mind was distracted. Stannis’ unexpected visit had briefly reunited her with her good-daughter, but now he had departed again and the danger passed, Catelyn had resumed the distance between them. It was her own doing, and she knew deep down that she was being irrational, but she still could not forget that Theon Greyjoy was being housed in comfort under the roof of the keep.

He ought to be in the cells. More so, he ought to be dead, his head rotting on a spike above the gates of Winterfell. Catelyn longed for it. Theon had betrayed Robb, had betrayed all the family. She and Ned had taken him in and allowed him to be educated alongside their own children, allowed him more freedom than any ward would usually be privy to. The betrayal stung even more because of that. Because they had always treated him well and he had taken their kindness and shown complete disregard for every ounce of it. She despised him, as she knew Robb despised him.

That was what she could not understand. Roslin was a good wife, a devoted wife, who had always seemed to understand Robb as well as anyone could, and yet in this matter she was going against what Catelyn knew her son would want. She had had Ramsay Snow executed without a second thought, and yet she was stubbornly refusing to deal the same fate to Theon, who deserved it just as thoroughly. Both men had betrayed Robb, both murdered innocent people and dared try to claim Winterfell as their own. Theon had even murdered children and tried to pass them off as Bran and Rickon. Catelyn had heard the tale - how he had tarred the bodies of those poor little boys and hung them up for all of Winterfell to see.

She was disgusted with Theon. She wanted to see an end to him, so that those boys, and the families of the dead, could have the justice they so deserved. Catelyn could understand Roslin keeping him alive, knowing that Robb would prefer to take his head himself, what she could not and would not understand was her insistence that he be kept in luxury within the keep. He may well be under guard and locked away, but he was well tended to by the Maester and given three meals a day. Catelyn could not understand it. Roslin was adamant that she wanted Theon to recover his mind, but she did not care either way, and she could not imagine that Robb would either.

She had toyed with the idea of writing to her son, to tell him what Roslin was doing and beg him to order her to take more ruthless action. At least have him locked away in the prison with the others awaiting Robb’s justice. Catelyn had not though, despite being angered by her good-daughter she did not wish to interfere with Robb’s marriage. It was not her place. Roslin could explain herself when he returned, and Catelyn knew she would have to. Robb would demand it. Catelyn would demand it.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It did not sit well with her, isolating herself like this, not just from Roslin but by extension, the rest of the family. They all adored her, Sansa trailing her around like a puppy, trying to learn all she could from the queen. Catelyn could not blame her for it, Roslin was a wonderful queen, Sansa could not learn from a better woman on that account. Arya, too, was often in Roslin’s company, when she was not sparring with Brienne, of course. Bran and Rickon had also taken to her, often badgering her to tell them stories about her time in the south with Robb, wanting to know every detail of their brother’s victories.

Roslin was happy to indulge them, and Catelyn could not be sorry that he children had such an affinity with her. It was the best way, of course. She wished she could set aside her own anger with her and respect her decision regarding Theon, but she was just too bitter about her good-daughter’s refusal to even consider a harsher course of action. It was easier to keep herself away and avoid any conflict. It would do no good, not when the family needed more than ever to keep a united front for the people. Robb was counting on them all to hold things together in the North while he continued his campaign, and she would not be the one to let her son down again. Not after the Kingslayer.

She sighed heavily and set aside her needlework. It was no good. She could not concentrate. They would all be dining together now, no doubt. Catelyn had ordered her meals to be brought to her rooms from now on. The remains of her dinner was left on the low table in front of her, she had only managed to eat half of it. She stood, suddenly finding the confines of her rooms stifling. If they were all in the dining hall, or in one of the private dining rooms, then she was free to go to the nursery and see her granddaughter before she was settled for the night.

Catelyn made her way down the hallways, coming to the door of the nursery and letting herself in quietly. The two nurses were sat by the fire, absorbed in their own needlework. They looked up as Catelyn closed the door behind her, immediately rising up and dropping into hasty curtseys.

“Forgive us, my lady,” one of them spoke. “We were not expecting you so late.”

“Am I too late to see the princess before her being put down for the night?” Catelyn asked.

“She went down an hour ago, my lady,” the nurse looked apologetic. “The princess tired early, no doubt warn out from crawling about the place and refusing to nap this afternoon.”

“I will just look in on her a moment then,” Catelyn smiled, before crossing the room to where the cradle stood, gazing down on her sleeping granddaughter. Bethany was always guaranteed to put a smile on her face, she was such a sweet little thing. She had begun to crawl recently, and her nurses reported a new tooth every other day, it seemed. By all accounts she was thriving, and Catelyn could not wait for Robb to come home and wonder over her once more. She hoped her son would not miss her first steps – that would be such a wonderful moment for him to witness.

Her smile faltered in the next moment though, as she continued gazing down at Bethany, only now noticing the dampness in her dark curls. She reached her hand down into the cradle to rest against the baby’s forehead, only to recoil it at once. Bethany was cold and clammy under her touch and she felt fear gripping at her heart as she whirled around to face the nurses.

“One of you must fetch the Maester – now!” she commanded, in a slightly hysterical voice. “And one of you must fetch the queen!” Both of them seemed to blink stupidly at her outburst. “What are you waiting for?!” she demanded. “Go, now! There is no time to lose!”

* * *

Tyrion watched her carefully as she read the letter. There was a slight frown creasing her usually smooth forehead. As he watched she arched one perfect brow, an almost amused look crossing her features before she lay the letter aside, a contemplative look on her face. He wasn’t sure whether to speak or not. She hadn’t had him executed, and she hadn’t threatened to feed him to her dragons for over a week. He was grateful for that. It seemed that he amused her, and she had often asked him to tell her stories of Westeros. She was, by her own admission, ignorant of Westeros, and she seemed to trust his accounts more than that of Ser Barristan.

Ser Barristan had likely romanticised much of the histories, perhaps wanting to spare the delicate little queen from hearing the worst of it. Tyrion was not so gentle, and it appeared that she was grateful to him for his honesty. It was only when he tentatively brought up praise for the Starks and the man he believed to be Aegon that she grew angry with him. Though, rather than threatening his life, she now seemed to think that ignoring him was the best course of action when he dared bring up such matters. If he was the optimistic type, he would confess to being hopeful that she was coming around to the idea of an alliance with her nephew. However, he had seen far too much to ever consider himself the optimistic type.

“What do you know of Jon Connington?” Daenerys suddenly spoke up, sharp eyes on him.

“He raised Aegon to be King, and by all accounts arranged the marriage between him and Sansa Stark,” Tyrion told her. “From what I saw of him I can only say that he was greatly attached to the boy, though rather more reluctant than Aegon to ally so closely with the Starks.”

“Even though the marriage was his idea?” she questioned him.

“The marriage, yes,” Tyrion smirked. “Though I doubt he imagined the two would take to one another so well. Nor do I imagine he intended for Aegon to so easily allow Robb Stark to remain King in the North and of the Trident.”

“Perhaps this Connington had a point,” she suggested, arching a brow again.

“Aegon could not have forced Robb to bend the knee, he’s too strong,” Tyrion told her. “Aegon would have lost too many men, likely lost everything, if he had engaged his good-brother in battle. If you ask me he did the right thing.”

“I wonder how well Robb Stark would stand against dragons?” she said simply, and he grimaced.

“I would urge you not to emulate your father in burning Starks,” he said firmly. “If you remember, that is what truly started the Rebellion. Rhaegar would likely be sat firmly on the Iron Throne with you, Aegon and poor Rhaenys all safely looked after behind the walls of King’s Landing if it were not for your father’s action. It is a wonder Aegon has managed to earn the trust and support of the Starks, given their history.”

“You still speak as though this _Aegon_ is true,” she said irritably.

“As I have told you before, I believe that he is. I believe he will be a good king, and I believe that you could do far worse than ally yourself with him,” he said calmly.

“He would offer me Dragonstone, and the title of princess,” she confessed, eyes sliding to the letter.

“A gracious offer, considering you are still claiming to be rightful queen,” he said lightly.

“Perhaps,” she said slowly. “Or perhaps he just fears my dragons.”

“Why did you ask about Connington?” Tyrion asked, refusing to be drawn on the subject of her dragons. Things would be much simpler if the damn creatures did not exist.

“Apparently he is coming to pay us a visit,” she replied.

“Really?” Tyrion raised his brows in surprise.

“And if _Aegon_ is to be believed, it is not with his permission,” she elaborated.

“Indeed,” Tyrion could not help his intrigue. “I wonder what could possibly have happened to make him desert the boy he raised as a son…”

“What indeed,” Daenerys agreed with him. “I suppose we will find out his reasoning soon enough, and I for one cannot wait to hear it.”


	20. XX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thank you all for the comments and the kudos on the last chapter - you're all lovely. It's awesome that you take the time to read this, and give me feedback. It's much appreciated.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter!
> 
> :)

 

* * *

Roslin tore up the stairs as quickly as her legs would carry her, skirts hoisted up so she could run down the hallways to the nursery. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it pounding through her blood and deafening in her ears. She almost fell through the door of the nursery, her eyes sparing her good-mother a brief glance. Catelyn was pale and her eyes were welling with tears. That second told Roslin all she needed to know as he eyes sought her daughter’s cradle, seeing her brother bent over it. Gods, she hoped his many years training as a Maester would be enough. The thought of losing Bethany…

A sob rose up in her before she could stop it, her hand coming up to clasp over her mouth as the tears she had been in too much of a hurry to shed finally spilled from her eyes. Before she knew it safe, motherly arms were around her, and she collapsed into the embrace gratefully. She didn’t remember her own mother’s embrace, Catelyn was the only mother she had even truly known, and right now she was more grateful for her than she had ever been before. Even after all the tension that had flared between them recently, she knew her good-mother was here for her now, and would not leave her side so long as she needed her.

After what felt like an age, though likely it was mere seconds, Roslin managed to pull away from Catelyn, her attention now for her brother as he straightened up from her daughter’s cradle. “Willamen,” her voice was cracked, “please, please tell me she will live.”

“It appears to be a fever,” his dark eyes betrayed his worry. She read him all too easily. “She is alternating between being too warm and too cold. Roslin, I cannot lie to you, she is very unwell. I would advise that you keep a close eye on her. She must be kept wrapped up and preferably close to the fire when the chill comes for her, and when her skin inflames sponge her with cool water before wrapping her in a thin blanket. You cannot allow her to get too cold, it will only make things worse. I’m sorry, there is little else I can offer, she is so young that most medicines would kill her. I dare not put her in further danger.”

“No,” Roslin agreed, her voice choked. “No, you cannot, I forbid it. Oh Gods…I…I…what does she need now, brother, please tell me?” she begged of him as she half stumbled towards the cradle where her ailing daughter lay.

“At the moment she is cold,” he told her, and she immediately lifted Bethany up into her arms, tucking her blankets safely around her. She snatched another from the back of a chair before moving to the fire and sitting next to it, her daughter tight in her arms. Roslin moved her free hand to Bethany’s forehead. Willamen was right, she did feel cold, though she could see the sweat in her curls where she had clearly been too warm previously. By the Gods, if Catelyn hadn’t come by to see her then the nurses may not have noticed for hours, until morning even. It was not unusual for Bethany to sleep through the night without waking for a feed. Gods, it could have been too late. She could have slipped away in the night and no one would have been any the wiser.

The tears came again then, and her body shook with the effort of trying to suppress her sobs. Her tears would not help Bethany, only her constant care and attention had a hope of doing that. She closed her eyes and willed the tears to stop, she needed to be able to think clearly to give her daughter the best chance. Vaguely she heard Catelyn bidding Willamen farewell, her brother promising that he would return and check on Bethany in a few hours, and that they ought to call him should she get any worse. She heard Catelyn agree, followed by the opening and closing of the door. A moment later her good-mother appeared, seeming to hesitate slightly before she too the chair opposite her.

“Thank you,” Roslin voiced after a long minute. “If you hadn’t looked in on her, I dread to think…”

“Do not think of it, not ever,” Catelyn said.

“I would have thought it too late,” Roslin continued, unable to help herself. “After dinner, I mean. We had only eaten one course, Rickon was telling the funniest stories. Then she came…I can’t even remember what she said now…By the Gods, if I lose my baby, I will never forgive myself.”

“This was not your fault, children get sick,” Catelyn said firmly. “I wish it were not so, but it is. But Bethany is a princess, she has a skilled Maester and a devoted mother. She has every chance of getting well again, and I am certain she will.”

“You’re very kind, Catelyn,” Roslin shook her head. “But you and I both know you cannot make such a promise.”

“I will write to Robb for you, if you like,” her good-mother said next, and she shook her head violently.

“No,” she almost snapped. “No, you must not. You cannot tell Robb, no one can. He will find a way to blame himself, it will distract him, and if he is distracted then he is in danger. They will march on the Capital soon – he cannot be fearing for Bethany when he does so. Swear to me, Catelyn, swear to me you will not tell him.”

"Roslin…” Catelyn looked pained. “Roslin, if she…”

“Don’t,” Roslin choked, knowing full well what she was about to say. “Robb cannot do anything. If she…if she…he would never get home in time, either way. Please, I will tell him when there is something to tell him. But for now…I cannot have him distracted, I cannot think of him laying their injured – or worse – all because his mind was not fully focused on his battles.”

“Alright,” Catelyn agreed, though Roslin could tell it was reluctantly. “I will say nothing, and I will make sure no one else sends him word either.”

“Thank you,” Roslin said gratefully. “Believe me, I do not like to keep this from him, but I must. It is for his own good, I truly believe that, Catelyn.”

* * *

Aegon smiled slightly as he read the letter from Sansa. He had written to her, carefully telling her how happy he was, without mentioning her condition. He knew that she would be able to decipher his meaning, he only hoped that no one else would. Now he had her reply, and she had been just as careful, though her joy at his reaction was plain. Gods, he missed her. Now more than ever. He had a new appreciation for what Robb must be suffering. His child was not yet born and already he felt as though he were missing far too much. He read through Sansa’s letter one more time, a slow determination settling over him as he came to the end.

When he stood he almost flinched at seeing Robb stood right in front of him. “From Winterfell?” his good-brother asked, nodding to the letter that he still had clasped in his hand. He nodded, clearing his throat slightly before elaborating.

“The ravens arrived not long ago, likely you were brought something yourself,” he said.

“No,” Robb said, looking slightly uneasy. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“No doubt,” Aegon assured him, tucking his own letter away. “Would you join me in the council tent?”

“Of course,” Robb replied.

“Alain!” he beckoned a squire forward. “Fetch Prince Oberyn, and Jon Snow, I would have them join me in the council tent, and Lord Tully if you can find him.”

“There is something important you wish to discuss,” Robb guessed.

“Yes,” Aegon agreed, but he refused to elaborate as they walked in step towards the intended tent.

To Robb’s credit, he did not push him for more information, merely helping himself to some wine while Aegon approached the map table and studied intently as they waited for the others. Thankfully they did not have too long to wait, Jon entering first, with Oberyn and Lord Tully arriving together not long afterwards.

“I hope you’re all well,” Aegon greeted them with a smile. They murmured their assent. “Lord Tully, how is your son?” he continued, as they assembled themselves around the table.

“Thriving, thank you for asking, your Grace,” Lord Tully responded with an incline of his head.

“You’re most welcome,” Aegon replied.

“You have business to discuss?” Oberyn raised a brow, and Aegon nodded.

“I don’t want to delay any longer, especially now that Connington has deserted us – perhaps to join my aunt – and that my wife is with child,” he told them. “I want to take King’s Landing, I want to secure it, and I want my child born there.”

“I thought we were waiting on the Tyrells?” Jon frowned slightly.

“They have had long enough, we can take the Capital with or without their aid,” Aegon said. “They know that, and they would be wise to allow us an easier route in, but if they do not, it will not stop us. The Tyrells have had long enough – I am tired of waiting, we attack tomorrow.”

“And Stannis?” Robb’s frown was even deeper than Jon’s.

“How many men did your wife say he had?” Aegon responded.

“Three or four thousand, she couldn’t be sure, I believe some were injured which would have slowed his progress,” Robb answered.

“There is always the possibility that he is not coming,” Oberyn said, “perhaps he has returned to Dragonstone and holed himself up.”

“If you believe that you don’t know Stannis,” Robb said. “If he was not going to join us, we’d know.”

“Robb’s right,” Jon said. “I met him at the Wall, he’s not a man to do nothing, even if the odds are completely stacked against him.”

“He left his daughter with Roslin,” Lord Tully put in, “surely that suggests he means to join us?”

“I would be inclined to think that,” Robb added.

“Fine, perhaps he is coming, but three or four thousand will not give us that much more of an advantage,” Aegon said impatiently. “We were all agreed that we had the strength to take the Capital, have you changed your minds? Do you believe we cannot win without Stannis?!”

“Of course not, peace, Aegon,” Oberyn held his hands up, his tone soothing. “I understand your desire to finish this, and if you are set on it then I will follow you, as I am sure these good men also will. We just want to be sure. We have the numbers, of course, but careful planning is needed to make the most of our advantage.”

“All we’ve done is plan, it’s time for action. Don’t you all want this over? Don’t you want to go home?” Aegon sounded almost pleading, but he did not care. He was among men he trusted, he didn’t mind them knowing how desperate he was.

“Yes,” Robb said, meeting his eyes. “Let’s do it, let’s attack tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Aegon couldn’t disguise his relief. If Robb was with him then Lord Tully would follow his king and nephew’s lead. Jon also nodded his head slightly, and Oberyn sent him a hint of a smile. Aegon took a deep breath. Finally. They would march in the morning. Mere days from now he could be sat atop the Iron Throne, and he would waste no time sending a message to Winterfell and a boat to White Harbour so he could reclaim his wife.

“Your Graces, my lords,” they were interrupted before Aegon could make any more comment, a breathless squire entering. “Forgive me, but Baratheon banners have been sighted. I believe they will arrive in camp shortly.”

“Thank you,” Aegon said in a slightly dazed manner.

“Excellent timing,” Oberyn said wryly.

“Quite,” Robb agreed, looking a little uneasy.

“I suppose we ought to greet him,” Aegon said.

“I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’d rather he didn’t know I was here just yet,” Jon said.

“Of course,” Aegon inclined his head to him, and Jon gave a brisk farewell before slipping from the tent. “Shall we?” he raised a brow to the rest of them before leading the way out.

He and Robb walked in step towards the approaching banners, with Oberyn and Lord Tully flanking them. “Interesting,” Robb murmured as they drew closer, and Aegon turned his head to him.

“What is?” he asked quietly.

“His banners,” Robb elaborated. “They are the traditional banners of House Baratheon, perhaps his infatuation with the Red God is at an end.”

“Indeed,” Aegon said, saying no more as two men dismounted from the front of the party, striding towards them. He assumed the younger, taller man was Stannis Baratheon, who the other man was he could not guess. Likely he was an advisor, or one of Stannis’ bannermen. He supposed he would find out soon enough.

The two parties halted about ten feet from one another, the silence between them awkward and heavy. Stannis set his pale eyes on Aegon, and he refused to look away, knowing the man was likely deciding whether he was Targaryen enough. He supposed he and Stannis were kin of sorts, perhaps that was why the man had been inclined to reconsider?

Stannis finally moved his eyes away from him, setting them instead on Robb at his side. “Robb Stark, I assume?” Stannis finally spoke. “Surprising, that after all this time this is the first time we’ve met. If I were a paranoid man I would think you had been deliberately ignoring me.”

“Not at all, my lord,” Robb responded evenly.

“I would speak with you, alone,” Stannis said, “before this goes any further.”

Robb turned his head to Aegon, just as Aegon turned his own. This wasn’t exactly what he had been expecting, but then he had not been expecting much at all. He shrugged his shoulder a fraction, and Robb turned back to Stannis. “Very well, my lord,” he said evenly. “If you would follow me, we can speak privately in my tent.”

* * *

Robb wasn’t entirely sure how to begin as he led Stannis into his tent. He crossed to pour some wine to buy himself another moment of time, before he realised he could not allow the silence to continue. “You are lucky that Aegon is not easily offended,” Robb told him as he turned and offered him one of the cups.

“As you are lucky that I am not,” Stannis responded. “I always heard tell that you were your father’s son, yet your father was a man of his word.”

“I assume you are referring to my wife’s offer of a meeting between the lords of Westeros,” Robb commented before taking a small sip of wine.

“Indeed,” Stannis confirmed.

“Then you are aware that I have not broken my word, Roslin has,” Robb continued calmly. “I was indisposed and she made certain decisions in my absence. At the time, it was the right thing for her to do, we had no other choice. We did not know that Aegon existed, and if we had, I’m not sure we would have been inclined to support him.”

“And yet here you stand, his staunchest supporter,” Stannis said. “You have brought him the North, the Riverlands, and much of the Westerlands. Without you, he would have little chance of taking the Iron Throne.”

“And yet here I am, as you said,” Robb said, sipping down some more wine.

“After everything the Targaryens have put your family through, I cannot say I am not surprised at your decision,” Stannis raised a brow. “You know your father would have chosen a different side entirely.”

“My father isn’t here,” Robb said, doing his best to keep his tone calm. “He’s dead, and the only Baratheon who tried to save him from that fate was Renly. Where were you when my father needed you to show him the loyalty that he showed you by writing you that letter?”

“I could never have saved him in time, you know that,” Stannis said.

“Perhaps,” Robb said coldly.

“You and I could have made a formidable alliance,” Stannis continued, “and yet you chose to name yourself king and sever two of the kingdoms. You couldn’t expect me to just accept that? Not as the heir to the _seven_ kingdoms.”

“Perhaps I should have joined you,” Robb conceded, “perhaps I would have, I never asked to be king, my lords elected me and I accepted – how could I not? Maybe it was a mistake, maybe I would have been better off joining you, but then, well, then I would be giving the impression that I agreed with your actions towards the Gods.”

“I see,” for the first time Stannis looked regretful.

“I see your traditional banners are flying once more – am I to assume that means you have come to your senses?” Robb asked him remorselessly.

“I was mistaken, I can admit that now,” Stannis said, finally taking a drink from his own wine.

“Then we shall say no more about it, I’m sure Roslin has punished you enough,” Robb offered a half smile.

“Your wife is a formidable woman,” Stannis said, he did not smile, but Robb heard the admiration.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Robb sighed, and this time one corner of the older man’s mouth twitched upwards.

“It must be a comfort, knowing your home is in good hands,” Stannis went on.

“As it must be to you, to know your daughter is,” Robb countered.

“Indeed,” Stannis agreed.

“Have you come merely because Roslin bullied you into it?” Robb asked him after a moment.

“She’s persuasive,” Stannis conceded. “And I confess, I’m curious, and out of options. I don’t like it, it would never have been my first choice, but your wife is right. I am the last Baratheon, the last hope to keep my great house alive.”

“Then you know what you must do,” Robb said quietly, meeting his eyes. “You must bend the knee.”

“That simple?” Stannis smiled wryly.

“Aegon is a forgiving man, I would vouch for you,” Robb said.

“And why would you do that?” Stannis asked him.

“Because, if you bend the knee I believe you will be loyal, whether you like the man or not,” Robb said. “My father told me there was no love lost between you and your brother and yet you were his most loyal general when you were needed. You never let Robert down, nor betrayed him, and I do not believe you would betray Aegon if you swore fealty to him. It’s not your true nature, not now you are free of that witch.”

“You have honour, trust,” Stannis said, “just as your father did.”

“As you do, I think,” Robb returned.

“You believe him true?” Stannis asked him.

“Yes,” Robb said. “And even if he were not, I believe he is right for the kingdoms. He married my sister, I was never going to be able to stand up and name him a bastard and an imposter. Even if I believed it, which I don’t.”

“You’ve done well out of this war, Stark,” Stannis commented, beginning to pace. “You left Winterfell a boy, a green boy at that. You were a little lord that no one paid enough attention to, that everyone dismissed and assumed would be dead within months. Yet here you are, two kingdoms for yourself, and good-brother to the man who will claim the rest. Because he will claim the rest, I have no doubt about that – and even if he dies in the process, I am sure you will have another plan up your sleeve to ensure power falls into the hands of the person you trust with it. You’ve played it well, your Grace, you’ve played it better than anyone, you and your clever wife.”

“Then you will bend the knee,” Robb said softly, and Stannis stopped his pacing, looking him dead in the eye for a long minute before inclining his head slightly.

“For Storm’s End and a good marriage for my daughter, yes,” he said. “I will bend the knee.”

* * *

Catelyn stood, a single tear trickling down her cheek as she observed the scene in front of her. After three days of resisting sleep it seemed that Roslin had been able to battle it no longer as she now sat half slumped over Bethany’s cradle. Catelyn could hear the pitiful whimpers from inside it that told her that her granddaughter was still clinging to life. The poor little thing had barely been able to eat over the last days, and she knew the Maester was worried about her condition despite how often he told Roslin to stay positive.

Bethany had been clinging on, as stubborn as her mother and father together. Had she not been, Catelyn had no doubt that she would have lost her fight. Gods, she wanted the poor little mite’s suffering to end. It was cruel, the condition she seemed to be trapped in, getting neither better nor worse. The Maester was still hoping that her fever would break, that the fact that she had lasted so many days without succumbing was a promising sign. It might well be, Catelyn supposed, but the longer Bethany went without being able to feed properly the weaker she would become, there was no denying that fact.

Roslin had been a shadow of herself, dark circles under her eyes and an almost grey tinge in her skin as she fought against exhaustion to nurse her daughter herself. Catelyn recognised her determination as guilt. She blamed herself, certain that it would not have happened had she been spending more time with Bethany. Catelyn tried to assure her that it was not so, that she spent plenty of time with her daughter, that is was a wonder she managed to do so much considering her duties. The Smalljon had taken them on now, though Catelyn helped where she could. They were determined not to bother Roslin unless it was completely necessary.

A soft knock came on the door then, and Catelyn darted to it as Roslin stirred slightly in her sleep. It was the Smalljon himself, and she tried to smile for him as she opened the door more widely and allowed him in. He looked towards Roslin, an almost defeated expression coming to his face. Catelyn knew that he revered his queen, and that it must trouble him greatly to see her in such a forlorn state. She knew that feeling all too well herself.

“How is the princess?” the Smalljon murmured, turning his attention to her.

“Holding on,” Catelyn answered, the only thing she could truthfully say.

“We are all praying,” he replied.

“I know,” she nodded. “Have you had some news?”

“Yes, from the king,” he said quietly. “They have made the decision to march on the Capital – the siege was already set, so likely it is all over now.”

“By the Gods,” Catelyn felt slightly faint, placing her hand to her heart.

“There can be no doubt that they will have succeeded, my lady,” the Smalljon said kindly.

“Yes,” she agreed, “but at what cost?”

“I would not like to say,” he said quietly.

“Nor would I,” she said tiredly, trying not to think the worst, trying not to imagine her son in the midst of such a battle. He would have been, she knew. Robb was not the kind of king to sit back with a guard around him. He was the kind of king who led the men from the front, who put himself in the most danger. She had a faint hope that now that he was a husband and a father that he might be more cautious, but she did not hold out too much hope of it. Her son would not change, and despite how desperately worried she was for him, she would not want to change his nature for the world.

“I suppose I must tell her when she wakes,” Catelyn said heavily.

“Perhaps it would be kinder not to,” the Smalljon said. “Whatever the outcome we will know in less than a week most like, it might be better that she doesn’t know. There is enough worry with the princess’ condition without fear for the king as well. The last thing we need is for the queen to fall ill as well, the people are growing restless with her continued absence.”

“I will hold court with you tomorrow,” she said heavily, “I can assure the people she is merely nursing her daughter back to health. Perhaps you might be right, best wait for news of the outcome before we worry about anything else. I trust you came to me with this first?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I assume you would not wish Queen Sansa informed either?”

“Best not, in her condition,” Catelyn said meaningfully.

“Quite right, my lady,” his certainty that keeping quiet was the right thing stifled her own misgivings. “I will leave you now, but please, let the queen know that the princess is always in my prayers.”

“I will, Jon, thank you,” Catelyn said meaningfully, squeezing his arm lightly before he bowed his head and made his way for the door. When he opened it she was faced with Olyvar on the other side, his hand raised as though he had been about to knock.

He and the Smalljon inclined their heads to one another, before the Smalljon went on his way and Olyvar came into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. When he turned back to the room his eyes landed on Roslin and she saw him sigh. “I had come to try and persuade her to sleep,” he said. “It will do her no good to rest in such a way.”

“You would not have persuaded her to leave this room, this is the best we could have hoped for, at least she will have rested a little, whatever good it will do,” Catelyn sighed.

“How is Bethany?” he asked anxiously.

“The same,” she told him.

“I had hoped she might have improved by now,” his voice was laced with despair.

“So had I,” Catelyn confessed. “I dare not say it to Roslin, but if she does not improve and begin feeding better soon I fear she will grow so weak that even if the fever breaks it will be too late.”

“You cannot think such a thing,” Olyvar shook his head. “You must not, and you must not let Roslin. It would kill her to lose her baby, we cannot even think it may happen. We just have to keep praying, praying that her fever will break soon.”


End file.
